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diff --git a/78682-0.txt b/78682-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..74fa41c --- /dev/null +++ b/78682-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,14998 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78682 *** + + + + + No. 222 (EAGLE SERIES) 10 CENTS + + THE LILY OF MORDAUNT + + [Illustration] + + BY MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON + + STREET & SMITH, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK + + + + +THE EAGLE SERIES + +STREET & SMITH, Publishers + +_The Pioneer Line of Ten-Cent Novels, and the Leader_ + +RETAIL PRICE, 10c. + + +This famous line was the original series of ten-cent books. Its success +was instantaneous. Millions of copies have been sold, and an increasing +demand for the entire series continues. The following titles are in +print, and can be supplied by all newsdealers: + + 224--A Wonderful Woman. By May Agnes Fleming. + 223--Leola Dale’s Fortune. By Charles Garvice. + 222--The Lily of Mordaunt. By Mrs. George Sheldon. + 221--Wedded Yet No Wife. By May Agnes Fleming. + 220--A Fatal Past. By Dora Russell. + 219--Lost, A Pearle. By Mrs. George Sheldon. + 218--A Life for a Love. By Mrs. L. T. Meade. + 217--His Noble Wife. By George Manville Fenn. + 216--The Lost Bride. By Clara Augusta. + 215--Only a Girl’s Love. By Charles Garvice. + 214--Olga’s Crime. By Frank Barrett. + 213--The Heiress of Egremont. By Mrs. Harriet Lewis. + 212--Doubly Wronged. By Adah M. Howard. + 211--As We Forgive. By Lurana W. Sheldon. + 210--Wild Oats. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. + 209--She Loved but Left Him. By Julia Edwards. + 208--A Chase for a Bride. By St. George Rathborne. + 207--Little Golden’s Daughter. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller. + 206--A Daughter of Maryland. By G. Waldo Browne. + 205--If Love be Love. By D. Cecil Gibbs. + 204--With Heart So True. By Effie Adelaide Rowlands. + 203--Who Was the Heir. By Geraldine Fleming. + 202--Marjorie. By Katharine S. MacQuoid. + 201--Blind Elsie’s Crime. By Mary Grace Halpine. + 200--In God’s Country. By D. Higbee. + 199--Geoffrey’s Victory. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. + 198--Guy Kenmore’s Wife, and The Rose and the Lily. + By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller. + 197--A Woman Scorned. By Effie Adelaide Rowlands. + 196--A Sailor’s Sweetheart. By the author of Dr. Jack. + 195--Her Faithful Knight. By Gertrude Warden. + 194--A Sinless Crime. By Geraldine Fleming. + 193--A Vagabond’s Honor. By Ernest De Lancey Pierson. + 192--An Old Man’s Darling, and Jacquelina. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller. + 191--A Harvest of Thorns. By Mrs. H. C. Hoffman. + 190--A Captain of the Kaiser. By St. George Rathborne. + 189--Berris. By Katharine S. MacQuoid. + 188--Dorothy Arnold’s Escape. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. + 187--The Black Ball. By Ernest De Lancey Pierson. + 186--Beneath a Spell. By Effie Adelaide Rowlands. + 185--The Adventures of Miss Volney. By Ella Wheeler Wilcox. + 184--Sunlight and Gloom. By Geraldine Fleming. + 183--Quo Vadis. By Henryk Sienkiewicz. + 182--A Legal Wreck. By William Gillette. + 181--The Baronet’s Bride. By May Agnes Fleming. + 180--A Lazy Man’s Work. By Frances Campbell Sparhawk. + 179--One Man’s Evil. By Effie Adelaide Rowlands. + 178--A Slave of Circumstances. By Ernest De Lancey Pierson. + 177--A True Aristocrat. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. + 176--Jack Gordon, Knight Errant. By William C. Hudson (Barclay North). + 175--For Honor’s Sake. By Laura C. Ford. + 174--Wild Margaret. By Geraldine Fleming. + 173--A Bar Sinister. By the Author of Dr. Jack. + 172--A King and a Coward. By Effie Adelaide Rowlands. + 171--That Dakota Girl. By Stella Gilman. + 170--A Little Radical. By Mrs. J. H. Walworth. + 169--The Trials of an Actress. By Wenona Gilman. + 168--Thrice Lost, Thrice Won. By May Agnes Fleming. + 167--The Manhattaners. By Edward S. Van Zile. + 166--The Masked Bridal. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. + 165--The Road of the Rough. By Maurice M. Minton. + 164--Couldn’t Say No. By the author of Helen’s Babies. + 163--A Splendid Egotist. By Mrs. J. H. Walworth. + 162--A Man of the Name of John. By Florence King. + 161--Miss Fairfax of Virginia. By the author of Dr. Jack. + 160--His Way and Her Will. By Frances Aymar Mathews. + 159--A Fair Maid of Marblehead. By Kate Tannatt Woods. + 158--Stella, the Star. By Wenona Gilman. + 157--Who Wins? By May Agnes Fleming. + 156--A Soldier Lover. By Edward S. Brooks. + 155--Nameless Dell. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. + 154--Husband and Foe. By Effie Adelaide Rowlands. + 153--Her Son’s Wife. By Hazel Wood. + 152--A Mute Confessor. By Will N. Harben. + 151--The Heiress of Glen Gower. By May Agnes Fleming. + 150--Sunset Pass. By General Charles King. + 149--The Man She Loved. By Effie Adelaide Rowlands. + 148--Will She Win? By Emma Garrison Jones. + 147--Under Egyptian Skies. By the author of Dr. Jack. + 146--Magdalen’s Vow. By May Agnes Fleming. + 145--Country Lanes and City Pavements. By Maurice M. Minton. + 144--Dorothy’s Jewels. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. + 143--A Charity Girl. By Effie Adelaide Rowlands. + 142--Her Rescue from the Turks. By the author of Dr. Jack. + 141--Lady Evelyn. By May Agnes Fleming. + 140--That Girl of Johnson’s. By Jean Kate Ludlum. + 139--Little Lady Charles. By Effie Adelaide Rowlands. + 138--A Fatal Wooing. By Laura Jean Libbey. + 137--A Wedded Widow. By T. W. Hanshew. + 136--The Unseen Bridegroom. By May Agnes Fleming. + 135--Cast Up by the Tide. By the author of Half a Truth. + 134--Squire John. By the author of Dr. Jack. + 133--Max. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. + 132--Whose Was the Crime? By Gertrude Warden. + 131--Nerine’s Second Choice. By Adelaide Stirling. + 130--A Bitter Bondage. By Bertha M. Clay. + 129--In Sight of St Paul’s. By Sutton Vane. + 128--The Scent of the Roses. By the author of Half a Truth. + 127--Nobody’s Daughter. By Clara Augusta. + 126--The Girl from Hong Kong. By the author of Dr. Jack. + 125--Devil’s Island. By A. D. Hall. + 124--Prettiest of All. By Julia Edwards. + 123--Northern Lights. By A. D. Hall. + 122--Grazia’s Mistake. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. + 121--Cecile’s Marriage. By Lucy Randall Comfort. + 120--The White Squadron. By T. C. Harbaugh. + 119--An Ideal Love. By Bertha M. Clay. + 118--Saved From the Sea. By Richard Duffy. + 117--She Loved Him. By Charles Garvice. + 116--The Daughter of the Regiment. By Mary A. Denison. + 115--A Fair Revolutionist. By the author of Dr. Jack. + 114--Half a Truth. By a popular author. + 113--A Crushed Lily. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller. + 112--The Cattle King. By A. D. Hall. + 111--Faithful Shirley. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. + 110--Whose Wife Is She? By Annie Lisle. + 109--A Heart’s Bitterness. By Bertha M. Clay. + 108--A Son of Mars. By the author of Dr. Jack. + 107--Carla; or, Married at Sight. By Effie Adelaide Rowlands. + 106--Lilian, My Lilian. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller. + 105--When London Sleeps. By Chas. Darrell. + 104--A Proud Dishonor. By Genie Holzmeyer. + 103--The Span of Life. By Sutton Vane. + 102--Fair But Faithless. By Bertha M. Clay. + 101--A Goddess of Africa. By the author of Dr. Jack. + 100--Alice Blake. By Francis S. Smith. + 99--Audrey’s Recompense. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. + 98--Claire. By Charles Garvice. + 97--The War Reporter. By Warren Edwards. + 96--The Little Minister. By J. M. Barrie. + 95--’Twixt Love and Hate. By Bertha M. Clay. + 94--Darkest Russia. By H. Grattan Donnelly. + 93--A Queen of Treachery. By T. W. Hanshew. + 92--Humanity. By Sutton Vane. + 91--Sweet Violet. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller. + 90--For Fair Virginia. By Russ Whytal. + 89--A Gentleman From Gascony. By Bicknell Dudley. + 88--Virgie’s Inheritance. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. + 87--Shenandoah. By J. Perkins Tracy. + 86--A Widowed Bride. By Lucy Randall Comfort. + 85--Lorrie; or Hollow Gold. By Charles Garvice. + 84--Between Two Hearts. By Bertha M. Clay. + 83--The Locksmith of Lyons. By Prof. Wm. Henry Peck. + 82--Captain Impudence. By Edwin Milton Royle. + 81--Wedded For an Hour. By Emma Garrison Jones. + 80--The Fair Maid of Fez. By the author of Dr. Jack. + 79--Marjorie Deane. By Bertha M. Clay. + 78--The Yankee Champion. By Sylvanus Cobb, Jr. + 77--Tina. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. + 76--Mavourneen. From the celebrated play. + 75--Under Fire. By T. P. James. + 74--The Cotton King. By Sutton Vane. + 73--The Marquis. By Charles Garvice. + 72--Wilful Winnie. By Harriet Sherburne. + 71--The Spider’s Web. By the author of Dr. Jack. + 70--In Love’s Crucible. By Bertha M. Clay. + 69--His Perfect Trust. By a popular author. + 68--The Little Cuban Rebel. By Edna Winfield. + 67--Gismonda. By Victorien Sardou. + 66--Witch Hazel. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. + 65--Won By the Sword. By J. Perkins Tracy. + 64--Dora Tenney. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller. + 63--Lawyer Bell from Boston. By Robert Lee Tyler. + 62--Stella Stirling. By Julia Edwards. + 61--La Tosca. By Victorien Sardou. + 60--The County Fair. By Neil Burgess. + 59--Gladys Greye. By Bertha M. Clay. + 58--Major Matterson of Kentucky. By the author of Dr. Jack. + 57--Rosamond. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller. + 56--The Dispatch Bearer. By Warren Edwards. + 55--Thrice Wedded. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. + 54--Cleopatra. By Victorien Sardou. + 53--The Old Homestead. By Denman Thompson. + 52--Woman Against Woman. By Effie Adelaide Rowlands. + 51--The Price He Paid. By E. Werner. + 50--Her Ransom. By Charles Garvice. + 49--None But the Brave. By Robert Lee Tyler. + 48--Another Man’s Wife. By Bertha M. Clay. + 47--The Colonel By Brevet. By the author of Dr. Jack. + 46--Off With the Old Love. By Mrs. M. V. Victor. + 45--A Yale Man. By Robert Lee Tyler. + 44--That Dowdy. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. + 43--Little Coquette Bonnie. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller. + 42--Another Woman’s Husband. By Bertha M. Clay. + 41--Her Heart’s Desire. By Charles Garvice. + 40--Monsieur Bob. By the author of Dr. Jack. + 39--The Colonel’s Wife. By Warren Edwards. + 38--The Nabob of Singapore. By the author of Dr. Jack. + 37--The Heart of Virginia. By J. Perkins Tracy. + 36--Fedora. By Victorien Sardou. + 35--The Great Mogul. By the author of Dr. Jack. + 34--Pretty Geraldine. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller. + 33--Mrs. Bob. By the author of Dr. Jack. + 32--The Blockade Runner. By J. Perkins Tracy. + 31--A Siren’s Love. By Robert Lee Tyler. + 30--Baron Sam. By the author of Dr. Jack. + 29--Theodora. By Victorien Sardou. + 28--Miss Caprice. By the author of Dr. Jack. + 27--Estelle’s Millionaire Lover. By Julia Edwards. + 26--Captain Tom. By the author of Dr. Jack. + 25--Little Southern Beauty. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller. + 24--A Wasted Love. By Charles Garvice. + 23--Miss Pauline of New York. By the author of Dr. Jack. + 22--Elaine. By Charles Garvice. + 21--A Heart’s Idol. By Bertha M. Clay. + 20--The Senator’s Bride. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller. + 19--Mr. Lake of Chicago. By Harry DuBois Milman. + 18--Dr. Jack’s Wife. By the author of Dr. Jack. + 17--Leslie’s Loyalty. By Charles Garvice. + 16--The Fatal Card. By Haddon Chambers and B. C. Stephenson. + 15--Dr. Jack. By St. George Rathborne. + 14--Violet Lisle. By Bertha M. Clay. + 13--The Little Widow. By Julia Edwards. + 12--Edrie’s Legacy. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. + 11--The Gypsy’s Daughter. By Bertha M. Clay. + 10--Little Sunshine. By Francis. S. Smith. + 9--The Virginia Heiress. By May Agnes Fleming. + 8--Beautiful but Poor. By Julia Edwards. + 7--Two Keys. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. + 6--The Midnight Marriage. By A. M. Douglas. + 5--The Senator’s Favorite. Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller. + 4--For a Woman’s Honor. By Bertha M. Clay. + 3--He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not. By Julia Edwards. + 2--Ruby’s Reward. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. + 1--Queen Bess. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. + + + + +_To the Reader_ + + +We trust that you will be thoroughly satisfied with this book. During +the long period of time that the publications of Street & Smith have +been familiar to the reading classes (somewhat more than half a +century) it has always been our aim to give to the public the very best +literary products, regardless of the expenditure involved. Our books +and periodicals are today read and re-read in a majority of the homes +of America, while but few of our original competitors are even known by +name to the present generation. No special credit is due for antiquity, +but we hold it to be a self-evident fact that long experience, coupled +with enterprise and the ability to maintain the front rank for so +many years, proves our right to the title of leaders. We solicit your +further valued patronage. + + + STREET & SMITH. + + + + + The Lily of Mordaunt + + _A NOVEL_ + + + BY + MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON + + AUTHOR OF + “FAITHFUL SHIRLEY,” “BROWNIE’S TRIUMPH,” “QUEEN BESS,” + “LOST, A PEARLE,” “MAX,” ETC. + + [Illustration] + + NEW YORK + STREET & SMITH, PUBLISHERS + 238 WILLIAM STREET + + + + + Copyright, 1884, 1899 and 1901, + By STREET & SMITH + + + + +THE LILY OF MORDAUNT. + + + + +CONTENTS + + + CHAPTER I. A PERFECT BEAUTY. + CHAPTER II. “WHICH IS THE MORE LOVELY?” + CHAPTER III. A FRIEND IN NEED. + CHAPTER IV. I WILL WIN YOU YET. + CHAPTER V. UNHEEDED FLEW THE HOURS. + CHAPTER VI. DISAPPOINTMENT. + CHAPTER VII. “I DO NOT BELIEVE YOU.” + CHAPTER VIII. BETROTHED LOVERS. + CHAPTER IX. THE FIRST WEDDING. + CHAPTER X. ARLEY’S VISITOR. + CHAPTER XI. I CANNOT GIVE YOU UP. + CHAPTER XII. IT SEEMS INCREDIBLE. + CHAPTER XIII. THE PORTRAIT. + CHAPTER XIV. THE ENGAGEMENT RING. + CHAPTER XV. A TEARFUL FAREWELL. + CHAPTER XVI. THE DOOR LOCKED UPON HIM. + CHAPTER XVII. BAD NEWS. + CHAPTER XVIII. ARLEY’S RESOLVE. + CHAPTER XIX. JANE COLLINS’ STORY. + CHAPTER XX. ARLEY’S ILLNESS. + CHAPTER XXI. A WICKED DEED. + CHAPTER XXII. SAVED. + CHAPTER XXIII. THE LAST APPEAL. + CHAPTER XXIV. A FRIEND IN NEED. + CHAPTER XXV. PHILIP PAXTON’S RETURN. + CHAPTER XXVI. JANE COLLINS AT HOME. + CHAPTER XXVII. THE TRUTH TOLD. + CHAPTER XXVIII. ADDING INSULT TO INJURY. + CHAPTER XXIX. PHILIP PAXTON’S LETTER. + CHAPTER XXX. FORTUNE’S WHEEL. + CHAPTER XXXI. THE RING. + CHAPTER XXXII. MRS. BANCROFT’S NARRATIVE. + CHAPTER XXXIII. THE CRASH ON THE RAILROAD. + CHAPTER XXXIV. A “LADY BORN.” + CHAPTER XXXV. THE GOOD SAMARITAN. + CHAPTER XXXVI. THE STRANGE LETTER. + CHAPTER XXXVII. IN A DILEMMA. + CHAPTER XXXVIII. ARLEY’S AMAZEMENT. + CHAPTER XXXIX. LADY ALICE. + CHAPTER XL. ATONEMENT. + CHAPTER XLI. I AM HIS WIFE. + CHAPTER XLII. WHERE AM I? + CHAPTER XLIII. A NOBLE MANHOOD RESTORED. + CHAPTER XLIV. PERFECT FAITH. + CHAPTER XLV. WIL HAMILTON. + CHAPTER XLVI. MIMOSA. + CHAPTER XLVII. HOMEWARD BOUND. + CHAPTER XLVIII. CAN IT BE TRUE? + CHAPTER XLIX. LADY PAXTON. + + + + +CHAPTER I. + +A PERFECT BEAUTY. + + + Hazelmere, June 30, 18--. + + Dear Phil--I promised when we were all at home that I would send + for you. We are a gay party, I can tell you--five constitute our + number, and we need only your own jolly self to complete the sextet. + There is pretty Arley Wentworth, my sister’s especial friend and + chum; Fred Vane, Annie’s fiancee, and last, but not least, aside + from your humble servant, my father’s charming ward, the Lady Elaine + Warburton. What shall I say of her?--how give you an idea of her + surpassing loveliness? I will say nothing. I can only quote from + our poet laureate: “Elaine the fair, Elaine the lovable! Elaine the + lily-maid,” not of Astolat, but of the house of Mordaunt, and the + daughter not “of a hundred earls,” like the “Lady Clare,” but of the + Duke of Mordaunt, who died abroad about five years ago, having first + committed his only child to the care of my respected paternal, who + was his dearest and most trusted friend. She has been at a convent in + France most of the time since her father’s death, and I have scarcely + seen her since she was a little maid in short clothes; consequently, + I was wholly unprepared for the vision of loveliness which burst upon + my sight, when, on my return from Oxford, I was presented to the + peerless Elaine. + + You perceive, old fellow, how it is with me; I have “gone clean + daft.” I see nothing, think of nothing, save a fair, creamy face, + with the faintest flush, like that of a sea-shell, on its rounded + cheeks, while shining bands of gold span the pure, white brow, + beneath which eyes of purple-blue seem to be looking at one through + a golden mist. Then those dainty lips! so sweet, so red, that they + never part with smile or word but they set my heart on fire. She + has a form of faultless symmetry, a hand like a piece of fairest + sculptured marble, and a foot which a fairy might envy. + + I said I would not say anything about her, but I’ve written all this + nonsense almost before I knew it. I’m getting decidedly spooney, I’ll + own, but you will not wonder when you see my “lily-maid.” Come down + right away, and we will have gay times for the next month. You will + like Arley Wentworth, who, by the way, is quite an heiress, and just + your style--dark, brilliant, bewitching. + + You shall be her cavalier on all occasions. You perceive that I + have done the pairing-off; for I warn you beforehand that I shall + brook no rival for the affections of my peerless Lily of Mordaunt. + I can imagine the curl of amusement, perhaps mingled with something + of scorn, on your handsome lips as you read this, mon ami. You will + remember how indifferent I have always been to the charms of the + gentle sex--you will recall my rank skepticism regarding my ever + losing my heart to any woman, however lovely; but I can’t help + it--it’s all up with me now, though I doubt if the rack would ever + have made me confess as much to any one else. Telegraph when you will + be here, and I will meet you at the station. + + Yours ever, + WIL. + +Philip Paxton, Esq., a young and rising barrister, sat in his chamber, +in Grey’s Inn, one hot, dusty day, when all London seemed gasping for +breath, so to speak, and read the above effusion; while his lips did, +indeed, curl, but with decided “scorn” rather than with “amusement.” + +“I should say he was ‘clean daft,’” he muttered, “poor, foolish Wil!” + +“And he will ‘brook no rival for the affections of the fair Elaine!’” +he added, a flash of something like defiance for a moment lighting up +his dark eyes. + +“Bah!” he continued, “the name is enough for me--I never could endure +that love-sick tale, where that poor little fool, Elaine, died for +love of Lancelot, and the very sound of it is a synonym to me of a +sort of milk-and-water beauty, and a weak-minded, silly little girl. +Now Arley Wentworth,” he went on, referring to his friend’s letter +again, “sounds something like--there is character in it, and, at all +events, originality. Let me see, this is Wednesday; I imagine that I +can arrange matters and things so that I can run down to Hazelmere on +Saturday. I think I’ve earned a rest,” he concluded, with a sigh, while +his eyes roved with something of pride over the piles of papers and +documents filed so neatly away in the pigeonhole of his great desk, and +telling of long days of hard work and well-earned gold. + +He took up his pen, and, drawing a sheet of paper toward him, at +once wrote a letter of acceptance to the invitation of his friend, +and mentioned Saturday afternoon as the time set for his arrival at +Hazelmere, the magnificent country seat of Sir Anthony Hamilton, a +wealthy baronet, who owned half the township of Horsham, Sussex County, +England. + + * * * * * + +Saturday afternoon, when the half-past four express from London stopped +for a moment at the station of Horsham, a tall, well-proportioned young +man of about twenty-five, sprang upon the platform and looked about +him as if expecting to see some one whom he knew awaiting him. + +There was a stately air about him which at once attracted attention, a +certain poise of the handsome head, a look of character and decision +about his attractive face, a certain gravity and dignity of manner, and +a fire in his dark blue eye which impressed the beholder at once with +an idea of superiority and power. + +And yet, a closer scrutiny of that face by those who were skillful in +reading human nature, always engendered a feeling of distrust, as if +underneath all that ability, power and culture there was an element +which was liable, under certain circumstances, to work mischief for +both himself and others. + +His clothing was of the finest texture and most fashionable make, yet +there was not the least suspicion of the dandy about him; everything +was immaculate, yet in perfect taste. + +“Aha! here you are, old boy, and now I am happy,” cried a genial voice +near by, and the next moment his hand was eagerly taken and heartily +shaken by a young man about his own height, but of slighter build, with +a frank, laughing face, clear, honest blue eyes, waving auburn hair, +and a voice whose heartiness and cordiality rang out like a rich strain +of music on the summer air. + +This was Wilton, or, as he was more familiarly called, Wil Hamilton, +only son of Sir Anthony and heir to his title and large estates. + +“If you had disappointed me,” he ran on, in a gay tone, and still +shaking the hand that he held, “I should have given you the ‘cut +direct’ the next time we met. We are all here after you--the three +graces, attended by Fred and myself. Come this way and I’ll introduce +you; but, beware!”--with a mock tragic air--“don’t you dare to lift +covetous eyes to the fair Elaine, or I shall throw my gauntlet at your +feet on the spot. Arley Wentworth, by the way, is on tiptoe to see you; +thinks you must be something extra; rather above the common run, you +know; for I’ve rung your praises unceasingly in her ears--of course I +had an object in view--during the last few days.” + +“Thank you,” returned Philip Paxton, in a slightly sarcastic tone, +which caused his light-hearted friend to laugh outright. + +“There! none of your grandiloquent airs, Phil, if you please. You know +they never did disturb me in the least, so they will do no good now. We +are all bound for a good time, and if your backbone gets too stiff, it +will be uncomfortable, not only for yourself, but for the rest of us. + +“Here we are,” he added, as they came around to one end of the +station, where there stood a handsome pair of bays attached to a +wagonette, in which two ladies and a gentleman were seated. + +“Annie,” he said, leading his friend toward them and addressing a +pretty girl, with a fair complexion and hazel eyes, “you do not need to +be introduced to Phil, but you shall give him a grip of welcome before +I present the others. Mr. Vane, this is my friend, Mr. Paxton; Miss +Wentworth, Mr. Paxton.” + +Mr. Paxton, after greeting Annie Hamilton, shook hands with Mr. Vane +and lifted his hat to Miss Wentworth and was instantly impressed that +she was a “mighty pretty girl.” + +Then he glanced about him in some curiosity, wondering where the “fair +Elaine” could be. + +Wil Hamilton noticed it, and colored slightly. + +“Come this way a moment, Phil, and I’ll finish all the introductions +at once,” he said; and slipping his arm within that of his friend, he +turned him about and led him toward an elegant phaeton, to which two +pretty, gray ponies were attached, and in which a slight, graceful girl +was seated. + +“I could not drive any nearer, for the ponies are a trifle skittish,” +Wil explained, as he led him forward. + +“Good Heavens! how beautiful she is!” the young man said to himself +when at last they stood beside the phaeton; and he never could remember +afterward how he conducted himself during the ceremony of introduction. + +“The Lily of Mordaunt,” he repeated to himself, as he gazed upon her +exquisite loveliness, and, for the moment, was oblivious of everything +else. + +He was conscious only of looking into eyes of liquid blue--eyes which +seemed to him to have fathomless depths, and through which some sweet +spirit was gazing up at him, thrilling his very soul with a strange +delight. + +He saw a fair, low brow, over which rings of sunny hair lay in careless +grace; a delicate mouth, proud, yet sweet, sensitive, yet strong. He +noticed the dainty fairness of her skin, upon which there was not +the slightest blemish; the small ears, which seemed like molded wax, +and the rich, heavy rolls of golden hair, which shone like bands of +smoothed satin. He saw, too, the slight, perfect, yet stately figure, +with its beautifully-fitting dress of russet brown; the small hand so +daintily gloved; the soft ruching encircling her white throat, and +which was fastened with some costly and curiously-carved stone. + +He took in every detail of her toilet--all her exquisite loveliness in +those few, brief moments, during which he stood bowing before her, and +exchanged polite greetings. + +“She is like the matchless Calla lily,” he said to himself, “as pure, +as stately, as perfect. I do not wonder now at Wil’s rhapsodies, or +that he lost his heart when he saw her. But I wish her name was not +Elaine--I never liked it; though if this lily-maid of Astolat was +one-half so fair, I doubt if Queen Guinevere, even though she were +called the ‘pearl of beauty,’ could ‘hold a candle to her’--to quote a +common phrase; and Lancelot, that flower of bravery, made the greatest +mistake of his life when he turned the cold shoulder to her pleading. +Who could look upon such beauty unmoved? It is not in human nature.” + +“Mr. Paxton will make our circle complete,” Lady Elaine said, turning +with a smile, and a slight blush, from his admiring eyes to speak to +Wil. + +That smile disclosed the prettiest teeth--small, white, even; and in +vivid contrast to the sweet, scarlet lips. + +Philip Paxton bowed his appreciation of this compliment, and a deeper +color tinged his own cheek. + +“Yes,” Wil Hamilton answered, “we shall make a capital party, and now, +Phil, if you’ll take a seat in the wagonette with Miss Wentworth, +I’ll swing your portmanteau in forward under the driver’s seat, and +then we’ll be off for Hazelmere, where we shall doubtless find dinner +waiting.” + +Philip lifted his hat to Lady Elaine, and turned away to comply with +his friend’s request. + +But he was loath to go; and his eye lingered enviously upon the vacant +seat by her side. + +How like a poem it would have been to be able to drive those spirited +ponies over the two miles to Hazelmere, with that peerless face so +near, and that sweet voice making music in his ears! + +But he was, of course, obliged to submit to the arrangements already +made; and, springing to his post by Miss Wentworth’s side, they were +soon trotting along at a spanking rate over the beautiful moors, +while, before they had accomplished half the distance to Hazelmere, +his admiration was turned into a new channel, and he was compelled to +confess that Wil had certainly given him no “milk-and-water” beauty +for a companion, for Miss Arley Wentworth proved herself to be both +brilliant and interesting. + +Half an hour’s drive brought them to Hazelmere’s hospitable doors, +where a cordial reception was accorded to the newcomers by Sir Anthony +Hamilton and his genial, motherly wife, and the gay party separated to +dress for dinner, which would soon be served. + +“I will give you just twenty minutes, young ladies, so bestir +yourselves,” Lady Hamilton said, playfully, as the three girls came +trooping into the hall; “if you cannot make yourselves pretty enough in +that time, you will have to suffer the consequences.” + +“What do you think of my ‘Lily of Mordaunt?’” Wil asked of Philip, as +he went to show him the room which had been prepared for him. + +“Your Lily of Mordaunt!” he repeated, with a keen glance into the young +man’s face; “do you claim possession already?” + +Wil flushed. + +“Well,” he said, with a laugh, “I suppose I have no right to do that, +but, between you and me, I hope it will come to that before long. Is +she not lovely?” + +“Very; and your name for her is very appropriate; but Miss Wentworth is +exceedingly beautiful, too,” Philip answered. + +“Yes, Arley is very brilliant, and a fascinating little thing; besides, +she has twenty thousand pounds in her own right.” + +“That is a snug little sum, to be sure; but, I suppose Lady Elaine is +very wealthy, also,” Philip remarked, with a side glance at his friend. + +“Yes; the Duke of Mordaunt left an immense property--the income, I +believe is about as much as Arley’s whole fortune.” + +“Indeed!” Mr. Paxton said, with a peculiar emphasis. “You will be a +lucky fellow, Wil, if you succeed in winning her peerless ladyship and +her immense fortune, also.” + +“I have scarcely thought of the money,” Wil Hamilton replied, eagerly, +and flushing hotly. “She would be just the same to me if she hadn’t a +penny.” + +“Nevertheless, a plethoric purse is a very convenient thing to possess +in the long run,” quoth Philip Paxton, dryly. + +“Twenty thousand pounds a year!” he repeated, meditatively to himself, +after Wil had gone below. “How would a man feel, I wonder, to have the +handling of that amount, to say nothing of the privilege of sitting +_vis-a-vis_ three or four times a day with such a beauty as Lady Elaine +Warburton.” + + + + +CHAPTER II. + +“WHICH IS THE MORE LOVELY?” + + +A few words more of introduction are necessary in order to make the +reader understand more thoroughly what the main characters of our story +are like. + +Arley Wentworth, like the Lady Elaine, was an orphan. Her father had +been a gallant captain in her majesty’s army, her mother the daughter +of a wealthy London physician. + +Both had died in the far East, the captain from a bullet wound received +with his face to the enemy, his gentle, idolizing wife from grief over +her husband’s untimely and tragic death. + +The little Arley, then not quite two years old, was thus left desolate, +save for the native nurse who had had the care of her ever since her +birth--and the officers of her father’s company, not knowing what else +to do, sent her home to England to her grandfather. The nurse, who +loved her little charge most fondly, and could not endure the thought +of separation, was only too glad to be commissioned to take care of her. + +But the poor, little waif nearly lost her life also, for the vessel was +wrecked during the voyage, the nurse was drowned, and the child was +picked up, more dead than alive, by a kind-hearted sailor, who saw her +drifting helplessly about, and could not leave her to the mercy of the +cruel waves, even though his own chances for being rescued were small. + +When he, with the few others who were saved, were transferred from the +sinking wreck to another homeward-bound steamer, a good woman took the +poor child and cared for her with all the tenderness of a mother until +she saw her safe in the care of her grandfather, Dr. Hugh McAllister, +of London. + +He was nearly heart-broken over the sad tidings brought to him with his +grandchild, but as she grew and developed, she gradually came to take +the place of his lost daughter, and he bestowed the greatest care upon +her education and training. + +She was a great comfort to him as long as he lived, and at his death he +left her all his property, and confided her to the guardianship of his +sister, a maiden lady a number of years younger than himself. + +So she was quite an heiress in her own right, besides having +expectations of more, since Miss McAllister was also quite wealthy. + +She was vivacious and beautiful, as well as very intelligent, +consequently she was much sought after and became the life of the +company wherever she went. + +Her name, Arley, was simply a contraction of Arletta, which everybody +seemed to dislike to speak, and wondered that her parents should have +chosen such a strange cognomen for her. + +Her features were regular, with a sort of rounded symmetry that made +one long to kiss the smooth, bright cheeks and the full, ripe lips. Her +eyes were large, very dark, almost black, and exceedingly expressive. +Her hair, of glossy nut-brown, was always arranged in some becoming +style, and her smile, so bright and witching, made others smile in +sympathy. + +She was not so tall or symmetrical in figure as the Lady Elaine, but it +was a pretty form, nevertheless, and always clad in the most jaunty and +tasteful of costumes. + +Annie Hamilton was a sweet, gentle girl, very quiet and somewhat +retiring, with no pretensions to beauty, but with a latent something +about her--a certain charm which made everybody love her. + +She was two years younger than her brother, who was twenty-one, and +whom she loved with almost idolatrous affection. She appeared rather +mature for her years, but this was owing to her quiet demeanor, and to +the fact, perhaps, that she had been brought up almost alone, there +being no companions of her own age in the neighborhood. + +Fred Vane, her betrothed, had, like Philip, been educated for the bar, +but having a handsome fortune in prospect, and being the only child of +his parents, he had, at their request, remained at home to assist in +the management of their large estate. + +He, like Annie, was very quiet in his tastes, and they were a couple of +matter-of-fact lovers, who bade fair to enjoy a life full of peace and +comfort. + +When dinner was over and the gentlemen had rejoined the ladies, Lady +Hamilton called her son to arrange for the next day’s amusement, and +Philip, seizing the opportunity, sought Lady Elaine and engaged her in +conversation. + +He was an entertaining talker, and soon succeeded in fastening her +attention wholly upon himself, and when at length Wil returned to the +drawing-room he found that his friend had coaxed his “lady fair” out +through one of the long windows, and there the handsome couple were +pacing back and forth on the ivy-covered porch, which ran along the +end of the drawing-room and the library, and were apparently oblivious +to everything and everybody save themselves and the subject they were +discussing. + +A quick, hot flush mounted to the young man’s brow, and a pained, +anxious look stole into his eyes, for he had surrendered himself +entirely and with a devotion rarely equaled to his father’s young and +beautiful ward, and he had begun to hope, from several little signs, +that she was not indifferent to him. + +“My peerless lily, I do not like this sudden monopoly at all,” he +murmured, with unsteady lips. “I love you--how I love you! and unless I +win you my whole life will be ruined.” + +Fred Vane and his sister were sitting in a deep window having a cozy +after-dinner chat, and had not even heeded his entrance. Sir Anthony +was reading his newspaper, and Arley was nowhere visible. + +Wil thought he would look her up, and stole softly out of the room, +feeling very wretched, and with the first bitterness which he had ever +experienced for his old chum rising in his heart. + +He found Arley in the library writing a letter, and sitting just where +she could see that distinguished-looking couple outside, pacing up and +down in the shadow of the ivy vines. + +Her eyes were unusually bright and her color considerably heightened, +but she looked up with her own charming smile as Wil entered. + +He begged pardon for intruding when he saw that she was writing, but +she said: + +“Come in, do; I am only just scribbling a little note to auntie. I am +all through except writing the address; and then, if you are agreeable, +we’ll take a stroll down to the lake; you know that is my favorite +resort, for”--with a droll look--“I found myself decided _detrop_ in +the drawing-room. Perhaps, however, the others will like to come with +us, if they are not too deeply engaged,” she concluded, with a slight +shrug of her pretty shoulders and an inclination of her bright head +toward the porch. + +Wil assented to her proposal, and, having waited for her to address and +seal her letter, they sauntered out. + +As they passed through the hall Arley caught up a filmy white scarf and +twisted it carefully about her head, and the contrast with her bright +complexion and her rich dress made the loveliest picture imaginable. + +“Come, Annie,” she sang out, gayly, peeping in at the drawing-room +door; “we are going down to the lake for a row.” Then, with a glance at +her companion, she added: “Will you ask Mr. Paxton and Lady Elaine to +come with us?” + +Wil started and flushed hotly at the question, and she read his heart +in an instant. + +“He loves her, as I suspected, and he is afraid of losing her,” she +thought. + +She bent her head in reflection a moment, then lifting it with a +haughty, resolute gesture, she said: + +“I’ll ask them,” and darted away to suit the action to the word. + +“I don’t care what Mr. Paxton thinks of me,” she murmured as she went; +“he shall not spoil Wil’s life with his arts; he loves Lady Elaine, and +he shall win her if I can help him to do it, for they were just made +for each other.” + +She stole softly up the steps of the porch, which at that end was +beautifully arched above with massive carved pillars on each side. + +Philip Paxton and his companion were pacing the other way, and their +backs were toward her--they were not even conscious of the approach of +any one. + +“The Lily of Mordaunt is wanted,” she called out, gayly. “Come, Mr. +Paxton--we are all going for a row on the lake, and if you have never +seen that charming sheet of water, you do not know what a treat is in +store for you.” + +They turned at the sound of her voice, and Philip caught his breath +as he looked down the length of the porch and saw the lovely vision +standing in the arch; it was as if the young girl had been painted +there by some master hand and then framed within that massive carving. + +“Heavens! I never saw one so beautiful,” he thought; and the fairer +beauty of the girl at his side seemed to pale before the bright vision +before him. + +Lady Elaine came forward at Arley’s call, as if glad to be released +from her _tete-a-tete_. + +“Please do not call me by that sentimental name, Arley,” she said, with +a smile, but with a rising flush. + +“Why not, dear? Wil gave you the name, and it just suits you,” she +replied, linking her arms in hers and drawing her down the steps. “You +always make me think of a lily whenever I look at you.” + +“But you make me feel foolish, you bright Rose of Wentworth,” Lady +Elaine returned, with an arch smile. + +Arley’s laugh pealed out rich and clear. + +“Now that is just delightful of you, my lady; nobody ever called me +anything so pretty before. Do I make you think of a rose?” + +“Indeed you do--the brightest rose that ever grew; isn’t it true, Mr. +Paxton?” Lady Elaine inquired, appealing to him. + +“Yes, indeed; it was a happy inspiration, and I think we must adopt it +in the future,” he replied, with a look in his handsome eyes that made +Arley’s heart beat quickly in spite of her previous irritation, and the +little piece of treachery which she had been plotting to thwart his +plans regarding the great heiress and her fortune. + +When they came up with the others, Wil appeared thoughtful, and his +usually frank eyes were clouded with a look of pain. + +“We have found a new name for Miss Wentworth,” Philip said, pretending +not to notice the change in his friend, although his conscience gave +him a twinge; “we are going to call her the ‘Wentworth Rose.’ What do +you think of it?” + +“That it is very appropriate,” Wil tried to say with his usual hearty +manner. + +“Then henceforth we will fight for the Wentworth Rose; her champions we +will be,” Philip said, gayly, and making a low obeisance before Arley. + +“Thank you, Mr. Paxton; but I am afraid I shall be spoiled, for I have +not been in the habit of having such pretty things said to me,” she +returned, demurely, but with very mischievous eyes. “However,” she +added, “if you take such rash vows upon yourself you must abide by the +consequences; I shall require you to wear my colors.” + +She plucked a crimson rose from a bush near which they were standing +and held it out to him. + +“A serious requirement, indeed,” he answered, smiling; “but I shall +be most happy to accede to it, if your own fair fingers will place it +where it ought to go,” and he touched the left lapel of his coat. + +Arley began to look for a pin; then, as if suddenly remembering the +object of their stroll she shot a quick glance over her shoulder at +Wil, saying: + +“I suppose I must comply with Mr. Paxton’s request; go on, Wil, and get +the boat ready, and we will be there by the time you want to start.” + +Wil Hamilton’s eyes lighted, for he understood the manœuvre of the +bright girl, and stepping to Lady Elaine’s side, they all passed on, +somewhat to Philip Paxton’s chagrin, for he had intended to monopolize +the heiress of Mordaunt during the remainder of the evening. + +But there was no help for it, since he had bound his own hands, so to +speak, and he was obliged to stand there and allow Miss Wentworth to +amuse herself at his expense. She appeared to be in no hurry either, +and it took some time to settle that rose to suit her capricious fancy. + +“I trust you have a generous supply of patience, Mr. Paxton,” she said, +with provoking coolness, as, for the fourth time, she removed the +refractory pin, to “try again.” + +“There!” she added, “I think that will do this time; and now I’m +afraid that we have kept the others waiting. But I always like to have +everything just right,” she concluded, with a double meaning to her +words, but looking so sweetly innocent that he never suspected how she +had contrived to spoil his little game, although he inwardly rebelled +against being separated from Lady Elaine. + +When they arrived at the lake, they found the rest of the party seated +in the boat, waiting for them. + +Annie Hamilton was sitting in the prow, Wil and Lady Elaine in the next +seat, looking as contented as possible with each other’s society, while +Fred Vane was in the middle of the boat with an oar in each hand; thus +the two seats at the stern were reserved for the two loiterers. + +“I am going to row, Paxton, and you will oblige me if you will take the +tiller,” Fred Vane said, and Philip, after assisting Arley to her seat, +could only comply with his request. + +But he did not have a very unsocial time of it, in spite of his +disappointment, for the “Wentworth Rose” was in the best of spirits, +for some reason, and kept his attention so perfectly occupied with her +mirth and chatter, that he almost forgot that he had been balked in any +of his designs, while Wil was as grateful to the quick-witted girl as +ever a forlorn lover could be. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + +A FRIEND IN NEED. + + +A week slipped by on magical wings. + +Some delightful excursion, drive or entertainment was planned for every +day, and the guests of Sir Anthony and Lady Hamilton were indeed a “gay +party,” as Wil had prophesied they would be. + +Had it not been for the two that were playing at cross purposes, there +would have been nothing to mar the delight of any one. + +If Arley Wentworth had only been Lady Elaine, with her title and twenty +thousand a year, or if her position and fortune had been equal to hers, +Philip Paxton would have bowed on worshiping knees at her shrine +before that week was over. + +He was bewitched and fascinated by her--she acquired a power over him +as no one had ever won before; he never heard her voice without a +thrill--she never came near him without his pulses leaped; the very +sound of her light laugh and step--the rustle even of her dress was +music to him. + +But, alas! he had decreed that it would be folly for him to pass by +the greater prize for the sake of a little love; he was ambitious for +a brilliant future, which fortune and position would at once secure +for him, and he could not afford to sacrifice it for the sake of a +foolish sentiment, which, at the most, could only give him a little +more domestic happiness; and perhaps, after all, he might learn to love +Lady Elaine just as well if he should marry her; and he had made up his +mind to accomplish this if possible, notwithstanding the confidential +confession of his friend, and the wrong that he would thus do him. + +“Wil is certain to be a rich man anyway--he will inherit all his +father’s large property, and it would not be fair for him to have two +such fortunes, while it is only by my wits and the hardest work that I +am making my way along in the world.” + +Thus he reasoned the matter with himself, shutting his eyes to the +fact that he was betraying the confidence of his friend, using him +dishonorably, and doing violence to the nobler feeling of his own +nature. + +But he did not progress very rapidly in his undertaking for, just as +he would succeed in getting Lady Elaine nicely to himself, and perhaps +right in the middle of a fine speech, something would be sure to +interrupt them and break up their _tete-a-tete_. + +But he never suspected that there was any “malice prepense” about it, +or that Arley Wentworth was thwarting him in every possible way--that +she was employing all her arts, and making herself so delightfully +agreeable to him whenever the opportunity offered, just for the sake of +keeping him from poaching on forbidden ground, and thus giving Wil the +desire of his heart. + +But it was so, nevertheless; she watched them unceasingly, and if she +saw Philip about to seek Lady Elaine, she would instantly dart up +to him, in her bright, bewitching way, upon some pretense or other, +claim his attention, and draw him into conversation or some playful +controversy, until Wil could capture his lady-love; then, laughing in +her sleeve over her success, yet with a strange pain gradually creeping +into her heart, she would suddenly remember some engagement, work, or +errand, and slip away again, leaving him to his own devices. + +“What is your opinion of Mr. Paxton?” she asked her one day, when, +having dressed earlier than usual, she ran into Lady Elaine’s room to +have a half-hour’s chat before dinner. + +“I think he is very agreeable and intelligent,” Lady Elaine quietly +replied. + +“Yes--a trifle superior--a little above the generality of young men, +isn’t he?” Arley asked, with a peculiar emphasis, and a covert glance +at the fair face opposite her. + +A delicate flush rose to the creamy cheek, and the lovely blue eyes +were hidden beneath their white lids. + +“Is he?” queried Lady Elaine, with an assumption of cool indifference +that amused Arley exceedingly. + +“I asked you to pass judgment upon him; but if you want my opinion +of him I suppose I can give it, and of the other young gentlemen +of our party, too,” she retorted, with a wicked gleam in her dark +eyes. “I think he is very handsome. You seldom see such magnificent +eyes in anybody; and he has such a finely-shaped head, so square and +well-developed. Then look at the life and energy in his every movement. +Why, if Fred Vane had one-half as much, what a man he would make with +his opportunities. Then he--Mr. Paxton, I mean--is so cultivated and +entertaining, he must have improved his time well while at Oxford; +while as for Wil----” + +She hesitated purposely, and the sly puss got just the reward she had +been seeking. + +“I’m sure, Arley, you are very unfair in your criticisms, especially +when you are a guest in the home of Wil Hamilton. You should not draw +odious comparisons,” Lady Elaine said, with a sudden flash of spirit, +her eyes gleaming and darkening, until they looked like two purple, +starry-hearted pansies, while a vivid spot of red burned on each cheek. + +“Odious comparisons!” Arley repeated, drooping her lids to hide the +dancing spirit in her own eyes. “I don’t think I’ve said anything very +bad. I was merely expressing my admiration for the recent addition to +our party, and--don’t you know? I was expected to admire him; for, +if you remember Wil took special pains to impress his superiority +upon me long before his arrival, and I’m sure I do not wish to be +unappreciative or to disappoint anybody----” + +“But you need not depreciate others for the sake of lauding him. Wil +Hamilton, of all others, least deserves it,” interrupted Lady Elaine, +with a heightening color. + +“I depreciate Wil Hamilton!” cried mischievous Arley, with well-assumed +astonishment. “My dear Elaine, you misunderstand me entirely--indeed, +you did not even allow me to finish what I was going to say about him.” + +“What were you going to say?” the fair girl asked, with a searching +look at her friend’s dimpling face, and then dropping her telltale eyes. + +“I was going to remark that, as for Wil, there was no use drawing any +comparisons, for--he is without a peer in my estimation.” + +A little smile of pleasure flitted over Lady Elaine’s sweet lips, +the waxen lids fluttered over her downcast eyes, while a vivid blush +suffused her fair face, burning up into the waves of golden hair above +her forehead, and creeping down among the folds of snowy lace about her +white throat. + +Arley, observing it, laughed outright and clapped her dimpled hands +with glee at these signs of the state of her friend’s heart. Then, +leaning suddenly forward, she kissed her on the forehead. + +“My beautiful ‘Lily of Mordaunt,’ you are a darling,” she said. “You +are pure and true to your heart’s core; you are loyal, you are brave, +and if I am ever in need of a friend, I know that you will not fail me.” + +How vividly she recalled that assertion two years later! + +Lady Hamilton was to give a large dinner party that evening to a number +of her friends in the county, and there were also several distinguished +people from London invited. + +Lady Elaine was very glad of the presence of these visitors, for they +would serve to shield her somewhat from observation, and she was too +conscious of her recently discovered secret to wish to be at all +conspicuous. + +She had chosen for the occasion a dress of pure white, of some soft, +gauzy material, and unrelieved by an atom of color, save a cluster of +dark, waxen-green leaves, which she had fastened at her throat with a +single diamond, that glittered among them like a huge drop of dew. + +“Mademoiselle is perfect,” her maid had cried, when her toilet was +completed; “there will be no one below one-half so lovely.” + +“Hush, Nanette! you must not flatter me,” her mistress said, with a +reproving smile. “I know,” she added, “that you have taken a great deal +of pains with my dress, and it is beautiful--it pleases me very much; +but I have no doubt there will be far richer toilets here to-night than +mine.” + +“There will be no one so lovely,” persisted Nanette, while her admiring +eyes rested affectionately upon that fair face and symmetrical figure +reflected in the full-length mirror. + +It was a little late when she entered the drawing-room; she had waited +purposely, hoping to be able to slip in among the crowd very quietly +and thus escape observation. + +But, as it happened, this brought upon her the very thing that she had +wished to avoid. + +As the curtains to one of the arches of the drawing-room parted to +admit the peerless girl, there was a momentary hush, and almost every +eye was fixed upon her with surprise and admiration, for she made an +entrancing picture there in her white trailing robes against the warm, +rich crimson of the curtains. + +But after the first heart-throb of dismay, as she saw the sea of faces +turned toward her, she passed to the side of Annie Hamilton, who was +assisting her mother to do the honors of the occasion. + +Wil, at the opposite side of the room, beholding her, felt his heart +bound within him with mingled exultation and pain--exultation over her +surpassing loveliness and pain lest something would cause him to fail +to win her. + +“She is like a stately Calla in her beauty; but her spirit, so sweet +and pure, is like the fragrance of the water lily,” he breathed, while +an almost unconquerable desire possessed him to clasp her to him and +bear her away from the sight and sound of every one, and pour forth the +burning love that was consuming him. + +“Who is that beautiful girl?” everybody asked; and they were greatly +surprised on being told that she was Sir Anthony’s ward and the +daughter of the Duke of Mordaunt, and then eagerly pressed forward for +introductions. + +“Jer-i-co!” ejaculated a young sprig of nobility, who was honoring the +occasion with his presence, “won’t she make a sensation when she comes +out? Twenty thousand a year! Ah, won’t there be a fluttering among the +birds of prey when that bit of news becomes known?” and he immediately +began to flutter his own feathers, and to edge toward the object of his +admiration, to be presented. + +Philip Paxton flushed to his very brow as he too watched her enter the +room. + +“I never dreamed that any one could be so exquisitely lovely,” he said. +“She is not so sprightly and entertaining as the Wentworth Rose,” he +added, his eye wandering to where Arley stood, and who was also in +white--simple white tulle, with dashes of scarlet verbenas in its +graceful drapery, and a bunch of them in her white gloved hands. + +She was as bright and cheery as some happy bird, and he sighed as he +looked at her. + +“I wish she had more of Arley’s spirit and wit,” he continued, his +glance returning to Lady Elaine, “but,” as he caught sight of that +costly glittering gem among the green leaves--it was one of the +Mordaunt diamonds, of which there were many and worth a fortune in +themselves--“but I shall marry her if I can.” + +As it happened, it fell to him to take her out to dinner, and owing +to the excitement of the occasion, and something, perhaps, to the +admiration which she had excited, and of which she could not fail +to be conscious, she was unusually bright and animated. She chatted +and laughed almost as freely and merrily as Arley herself, who was +bewitching the son of an earl as fast as ever she could; though she +had frowned threateningly and cast a look of commiseration at poor Wil +when she saw Lady Elaine upon Philip Paxton’s arm, while he, Wil, had +to take down a spinster of forty, who wore corkscrew curls and was +otherwise frightful in a toilet of mulberry and green. + +The dinner was, apparently, a brilliant success, and the guests in +their happiest humor. + +No one, save Arley, perhaps, suspected the pain and passion that were +raging in the breast of Sir Anthony’s heir, while he covertly watched +his love glow and brighten in the presence of her attendant, as he had +never seen her do before. + +“Shall I learn to hate my dearest friend?” he fiercely asked himself, +as he saw him bend almost fondly toward his companion and whisper words +which brought a more vivid color to her cheek, and made her droop her +white lids in maidenly confusion. + +He grew so furiously jealous and disturbed that, as soon as the ladies +had withdrawn, he excused himself from the table and stole away out of +the house, and out of the sound of the mirth and laughter of the gay +company. + +He wanted to be alone a while; he needed to calm his excited nerves and +to try and exorcise, if possible, the spirit of evil that was rising up +and taking possession of him. + +He wandered down to the lake, his head bared to the cool evening +breeze, for his brow was hot and feverish; and here loosing his wherry, +he leaped into it and pushed off from the shore for a hard row in the +moonlight. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +I WILL WIN YOU YET. + + +An hour after, Wil returned comparatively calm and in a much more +rational frame of mind. He had worked off a good deal of his internal +wickedness at the oars, and the season of meditation had done him good. +He saw how unreasonable he had been to indulge in such passionate +jealousy and anger; for if Lady Elaine preferred Philip Paxton’s +society to his own and was attracted toward him, no power on earth +could help it, and he must try to make the best of it. + +The night was supremely beautiful, and, as he had glided over the +smooth bosom of the lake, a sort of peace had fallen upon him; the +soft light of the moon, as it glimmered through the network of foliage +overhanging the waters, had seemed to quiet the tumult that was raging +within him, and charm away those disagreeable sensations of hatred and +revenge which for the time he had let take such violent possession of +him. + +“I love her, and I am going to try to win her,” he said, with a sudden +resolute uplifting of his handsome head, as his boat went skimming over +the waters and he had seriously thought the matter all over. “If I can +do it fairly and honorably, I shall be the happiest man in the world; +if I cannot win her--if she cannot love me and will not be my wife--if +her heart turns to Paxton”--and his fine lips grew pale and unsteady at +the thought--“I have no right to stand in his way, even though I feel +that he is not treating me honestly after the confidence which I have +given him. + +“I will go back; I will not sulk and pout like an overgrown schoolboy, +but I will go and meet my fate like a man.” + +And as he reasoned in this sensible, straightforward fashion, he turned +his wherry about and began to row back to put his resolution into +execution. + +As he did so the moonlight fell upon something white just at his side. + +He bent to look. It was a water lily, its waxen face turned up to him, +beaming at him from the dark waters like a star of hope and promise. + +He uttered a cry of pleased surprise as he put out his hand and +carefully plucked it. + +“What strange freak of nature is this that I find a water lily in full +bloom in the night?” he said. + +He held it closely out into the light to examine it more closely, and, +as far as he could see, it was a most perfect and beautiful flower. + +“Shall I accept the finding of this as a good omen? Is it a blossom of +promise to me?” he asked, his face brightening as he contemplated it. +“I will hope so, at least, as long as there is anything to hope for. I +will take it home to her, for she loves the lilies so, my peerless Lily +of Mordaunt.” + +He laid it carefully on the seat beside him, and rowing swiftly and +with a lightened heart, he was soon back again at Hazelmere. + +The lily was found to be without a blemish; every petal and stamen was +as perfect as if it had been molded from wax. + +His first thought as he re-entered the drawing-room was of Lady Elaine. + +She was standing near a window which opened upon the porch where she +had paced with Philip Paxton on the night of his arrival, and she was, +for the moment, alone. + +He approached her, and when she saw him she gave him a smile of welcome. + +“Where have you been, truant, all this time?” she asked, playfully. + +His heart leaped at the words. + +She had missed him, then, consequently her attention could not have +been very deeply absorbed by any one else. + +“I did not feel quite right after dinner, and I went out upon the lake +for a row,” he answered, frankly. + +“Are you ill?” she inquired, a shade of anxiety creeping into her +lovely eyes; and again his heart thrilled with a strange, sweet delight. + +“No; I am quite well.” Then, not caring to pursue that subject, he said: + +“But I have found something for you--something strange and beautiful. +Will you come with me and let me show it to you?” + +“‘Something strange and beautiful?’” she repeated, smiling. “Of course, +I will come. I could not endure the curiosity which you have aroused in +me.” + +She laid her hand lightly on his arm, and he led her to a little +ante-room where he had left his lily in water. + +He had put it into a tall, slender vase of cut glass, and as he led her +up to it, she exclaimed: + +“Where did you get it? I never saw anything more perfect or beautiful.” + +She took the vase in her white-gloved hands and bent over it, her face +full of appreciation and delight. + +“I found it on the lake,” Wil answered, thinking how like to the +spotless flower she was herself, in her pure white robes, with that +simple cluster of green leaves at her throat. + +“What--to-night! I thought water lilies always closed at night,” she +cried. + +“So they do; but some strange freak of nature has kept this one open. +Perhaps,” he added, with a smile, “some tiny, invisible fairy or +water-nymph has crept into it and gone to sleep, and that is what keeps +it open.” + +“What a pretty fancy, Wil,” Lady Elaine began, and then stopped +suddenly, while a beautiful blush suffused her face. + +She had never spoken his name quite like this before, at least not in +his presence, and again every nerve within him thrilled with joy. + +“Do you know,” she added, quickly, as if to cover her confusion, “what +I mean to do with it? The sisters at the convent taught me the art +of preserving flowers, and I shall attend to this the first thing +to-morrow morning. I shall keep it always,” she asserted; then fearing +she had said too much, she added, with drooping lashes, “for it is too +beautiful to be allowed to fade.” + +Wil caught his breath; those shyly-drooping lids, the fluctuating color +in that velvet cheek, were very enticing signs to him. + +“Would you care enough about it to take all that trouble?” he asked, in +a low, eager voice, his whole soul in his eyes. + +Before she could reply, a voice behind them said: + +“Oh, here you are, Wil. Your mother wants you a moment,” and Sir +Anthony popped his head most inopportunely in upon the almost-declared +lovers. + +Then seeing the flower that Lady Elaine was holding in her hands, and +being quite an enthusiastic botanist, he came forward to examine the +night-blooming lily, while Wil, perceiving that his opportunity was +lost for that time, went to ascertain what his mother wanted. + +But his heart was lighter than it had been for many days; something +in his darling’s manner, the involuntary speaking of his name in that +familiar way, her assertion that she should always keep his lily, made +him feel as if his cause was not altogether hopeless. + +Sir Anthony stopped only a moment or two after his son left them, then +he, too, went back to his guests, leaving his fair ward alone. + +As he disappeared, she lifted the glittering vase which she still held, +and laid her lips tenderly, caressingly, against that waxen flower, +resting like a white dove upon its edge. + +Could an artist have painted her as she looked then, his fame would +have been established for all time, for a fairer picture mortal eye +never gazed upon. + +The little room with its rich crimson hangings, the walls paneled with +embossed gold, and adorned with choice paintings, with here and there +a gleaming statuette, the glittering chandelier above shedding its +radiance over all, and the young girl, in her pure white dress, her +face slightly flushed, her scarlet lips tremulous with some inward +emotion, looking tenderly down upon the perfect flower in its crystal +cup--ah, it was a vision which once seen would be stamped upon memory’s +page forever. + +Philip Paxton, standing unobserved in the doorway, saw it and held +his breath, almost fearing that if he should move the spell would be +dissolved and she would suddenly vanish like some sweet spirit from his +sight. + +He had seen Wil approach and lead her from the drawing-room while he +was talking to Lady Mary Elgin, to whom he had just been introduced, +and he instantly became alarmed lest something should occur to balk his +plans. + +As soon as he could do so, he excused himself from his companion and +followed them from the room. + +Passing through the hall he saw Wil emerge from the little ante-room +alone, and instantly breathed freer. Surely no harm could have been +done in so short a time. + +A moment or two later Sir Anthony followed his son, and, believing that +Lady Elaine was now there alone, Philip, with a feeling of exultation +that he should find a clear field, stole forward, peeped within the +room, and saw the picture that has been described. + +“Now or never!” he said to himself, yet notwithstanding his anxiety to +know his fate, he was loath to disturb that delightful vision. + +But a slight movement on his part made Lady Elaine turn quickly, and +then she blushed a vivid scarlet as she wondered if Mr. Paxton had seen +the tender caress which she had bestowed upon her lily. + +He had seen her bending over it, but not having witnessed Wil’s +presentation, he had imagined her to be merely inhaling its fragrance, +and now observing her blush, he fondly believed that his unexpected +presence alone had caused it. + +He instantly went forward to her side with a smile. + +“You have something very pretty there,” he said. + +“Yes,” she said, recovering her self-possession. “It is a lily which +has bloomed, or remained in blossom, in the evening. Mr. Hamilton found +it on the lake. Did you ever see anything so perfect and beautiful?” + +She held the vase toward him as she spoke. + +He took it from her and looked at the flower, but with a preoccupied +air. + +Then he put it down upon the table near which they were standing, and +turning to her again, said, in a deep, intense tone, while an eager, +passionate fire burned in his eyes: + +“It is neither so perfect nor so beautiful as its namesake, the Lily of +Mordaunt. Lady Elaine, you must know what I want to say to you. I love +you with my whole soul, and I want to win you for my wife. I did not +mean to speak to you of this so soon. I meant to woo you gradually; but +when I saw you in here alone in your transcendent loveliness, I was +impelled to come and tell you of my love. I was afraid to wait. I was +afraid that I should lose you, and my impatient heart would not brook +delay. My darling, tell me that I may wear the Lily of Mordaunt forever +on my heart. Tell me that you will love me, and give the right to call +you by the sweetest of all names--my wife.” + +He had spoken very rapidly--so rapidly that she could find no +opportunity to interrupt him, though her very soul had shrank appalled +as she listened to his passionate avowal, for such it seemed to her, +since his voice shook, and he was trembling with emotion and suspense +when he concluded. + +She had grown suddenly scarlet at his confession, then as she realized +the pain that she must inflict upon him, she became as white as her +snowy dress. + +“Mr. Paxton,” she began, sorrowfully, when he paused, “I am deeply +pained that you should have said this to me. If I had once surmised +that you were beginning to cherish feelings such as you have just +confessed, I should have found some way to show you how impossible it +would be for me ever to be your wife----” + +“Oh, do not say that,” Philip Paxton interrupted, in a tone of +passionate entreaty. + +“I must, Mr. Paxton, or else be guilty of doing both you and myself an +irreparable injury.” + +She spoke with such positiveness, and so calmly, that it angered him. + +“Perhaps the Lady Elaine Warburton would not condescend to marry a +young barrister, however respectable he might be. Perhaps she desired +to secure another title when she takes upon herself the bonds of +matrimony,” he said, sarcastically, while a burning flush surged up +and lost itself beneath the masses of dark hair which lay above his +forehead. + +She drew herself up with a slight gesture of haughtiness at this +implication, but she answered as gently as before: + +“If I had given my heart to a man whom I believed to be worthy, I +should marry him without regard to his profession or position in life.” + +“Am I not worthy, then? Wherein do I lack? Teach me how to be worthy +of you, and I will move the world to accomplish my object,” he cried, +assuming a humble tone. + +She lifted her eyes to his face and they were full of pity. + +“I beg your pardon,” she cried. “I had no intention of implying +anything like that. I feel that you are worthy of the love of a +true-hearted woman, and I esteem you very highly as--as a friend----” + +He interrupted her with a gesture of repugnance. + +“I do not want to be your friend,” he cried, impetuously. + +“Do you not?” she questioned, in a tone of gentle surprise, a slight +flush tinging her cheek. + +“Oh, I do not mean that,” he answered, almost wildly, “but I want +more--I want your love--your heart--I want you.” + +“I can give you neither my love nor myself,” Lady Elaine replied, in a +low voice, but there was no mistaking the decision in her tone. + +He grew frightfully pale for a moment, and then a rush of anger and +disappointment dyed all his face again. + +“Tell me,” he said, abruptly, almost rudely, and searching her face +with a burning glance, “have you given yourself to another? Do you love +some one else?” + +She turned upon him a cold, imperious look. + +“You have no right to ask me such a question,” she said, icily; but her +cheeks were vivid in their scarlet hue. + +He saw his mistake instantly. + +She was very proud and very sensitive, this peerless Lily of Mordaunt, +and, if he hoped to retain her favor, he saw that he must conduct +himself very circumspectly. + +“Forgive me,” he returned, humbly--he could afford to be very +humble, if by any means he could win that twenty thousand a year; +“I had no right to ask it, but I am nearly wild with the pain of my +disappointment. Tell me, please, that you forgive me.” + +He held out his hand appealingly as he ceased speaking, and with her +heart full of pity for him, and believing that he was sincere, she laid +her own within it with a frank, forgiving smile. + +“You are freely forgiven,” she said, sweetly. + +His fingers closed over hers in an almost spasmodic clasp. + +“Thank you,” he murmured, tenderly; then he added: “But I would give +very much to know if this hand is pledged to another.” + +She quickly withdrew it, a curl of scorn replacing the smile on her +lips. + +“Mr. Paxton forgets himself often to-night,” she said, haughtily; then +added, with sudden impulse, “and yet if it can be of any consequence to +him to know the fact of the case, I can tell him that--it is not.” + +His face cleared in an instant; his heart leaped with exultation; the +beautiful girl with her immense fortune might yet be his if this was +true; at all events he would leave no stone unturned to accomplish his +purpose. + +He bent toward her with a brilliant smile, an eager look in his +handsome eyes. + +“Then I do not despair,” he said, softly; “I will win you yet.” + +And without giving her an opportunity to reply, turned abruptly and +left her. + + + + +CHAPTER V. + +UNHEEDED FLEW THE HOURS. + + +Wilton Hamilton, after obeying his mother’s summons and attending to +her request, went to seek Elaine again in the little room whither he +had taken her to show her his lily. + +Something seemed to whisper to him that she might be there waiting for +him to return. + +He had all at once become very hopeful that his suit would meet with +just the response which he so ardently craved, for her manner, when he +had given her the lily, had been encouraging, if not almost tender. + +He hastened back, resolving that if he found her still in the +ante-room, he would settle this question of his future without further +delay. + +As he drew near the still-open door he heard voices. + +A moment more he stood upon the threshold and in an instant all the +light and hope went out of his face, and a feeling of blank despair +settled down upon his heart. + +He had reached the spot just as Lady Elaine, in response to Philip’s +plea “forgive me,” had looked up with that frank smile and placed a +white gloved hand in his in token of her pardon, and the hopeless +lover, standing behind them and beholding this, believed the simple +act to be but the consummation of a betrothal--believed that, in his +absence, his false friend Philip Paxton had stolen a march upon him and +won away his love. + +He did not hear Lady Elaine’s words, “you are freely forgiven,” for +they had been spoken low, and there was a dreadful ringing in his ears, +while all his faculties for the moment seemed to be paralyzed. + +Then, with such a sense of misery and desolation as he never had +dreamed a mortal could experience, he crept stealthily away, leaving, +as he believed, a pair of happy lovers to their first moments of bliss. + +When Lady Elaine returned to the drawing-room, after Philip had left +her, she at once began to look around for Wil. + +She hoped he would come to her and ask her to dance with him. She +longed for his companionship, for she could not forget the look that he +had bent upon her when he asked her if she cared enough for his gift +to preserve it, and the charm of his presence had been so great that +she was impatient to be with him again. + +But he was not there, nor did he make his appearance again during +the evening, and the hours dragged heavily to her until the company +separated. + +She thought it strange that he should absent himself thus, but supposed +that Lady Hamilton had sent him on some commission, and never once +suspected that he was at that moment in his own room, prone upon his +bed, battling with all his might against the misery that was mastering +him, and the doom which he believed had been pronounced upon his hopes. + +He felt as if he could never look upon his lost love again and bear the +pain of it--could never meet the man who had betrayed his confidence +and won the only woman he could ever love. + +When, the next morning, he joined the family at breakfast, his face was +white and sunken, his eyes heavy and dull, his manner unnatural and +constrained, and he started violently whenever any one spoke; for he +was in constant fear of hearing an engagement announced. + +Lady Hamilton was alarmed and declared he was sick, and was for sending +for a doctor at once. + +He said he was not ill, though he confessed he had not slept well, but +affirmed that he should be all right again soon. + +He pleaded a headache as an excuse for not joining a party upon an +excursion which had been planned for that day to visit some celebrated +springs about five miles distant, and then felt as if he should go +crazy listening to the regrets that poured upon him from all quarters. + +Lady Elaine alone said nothing; but she looked troubled and anxious. + +He had not once met her eye--had not spoken one word to her, beyond +a brief “good-morning,” and she was quite sure that something very +serious was the matter, both physically and mentally, and she quietly +resolved to learn the nature of it before the day was ended. + +Quite a large party were to visit the springs, many of the neighboring +families having been invited to “picnic” with the Hamiltons, and when +at length the gay company cantered down the avenue, their happy voices +and laughter dying away in the distance, Wil Hamilton, in his room, +with the curtains and blinds drawn close--for he could not even bear +the light of the glad, bright day--heaved a sigh of relief at their +departure. + +“They are gone,” he said. “Now I will go where nobody can come near +me--where nobody can see me.” + +Rising hastily, he caught up his hat, crushed it down over his eyes, +and stealing down a side stairway, he went out, and, with a quick, +fierce stride, walked across the lawn toward the forest beyond, where +he was soon lost to sight. + +An hour later a slight, graceful figure, clad in a dress of crisp, +delicate lavender lawn, made in the daintiest manner, a charming +shade-hat of white chip, lined with blue, upon her golden head, and a +pretty basket hanging on her arm, might have been seen flitting down +the avenue, as if intent upon a solitary ramble. + +Arriving at the gate, Lady Elaine--for, of course, it was she--stopped +and looked right and left, as if somewhat in doubt which direction to +take. + +She finally decided upon turning to the left, moving with a free, brisk +step, and all unconscious that she was walking straight to meet her +fate, for the forest lay off in that direction. + +As soon as Wil had announced his intention of remaining at home she +mentally resolved that she would not accompany the party, either. It +would not be pleasant to be in the presence of Mr. Paxton after what +had occurred the previous evening, while she judged from his last words +before leaving her, and his manner, that he did not take her refusal as +final, and intended to prosecute his attentions still further. + +It was with a feeling of relief that she, too, heard the gay party +cantering down the avenue, and knew that she should have the day to +dispose of at her own sweet will. + +A sense of freedom and something of exhilaration seemed to possess +her as she found herself walking alone along the highway, beneath the +friendly shade of the huge overarching elms. + +After walking a short distance, she turned into a cart-path leading +into the woods, where she roamed about for an hour or more filling her +pretty basket with sylvan treasures, then, feeling somewhat weary and +warm, she resolved to make her way to a tiny brook, where there was a +rustic seat, and where she and Annie often came with their books and +work to spend a warm afternoon. + +Softly and almost as light-footed as a fairy she glided along the mossy +way, and ere long reached the spot. Parting a thick growth of foliage, +she stepped instantly into a small open space, and the next instant +started back suddenly with a smothered cry of terror, for there, prone +upon the earth before her, was the stretched form of a man, his face to +the ground. + +He did not move, he scarcely seemed to breathe, and for a moment she +stood irresolute whether to fly or go to his aid. + +Then, as her quick eye marked and recognized his clothing, she became +pale as death with a sudden fear. + +It was Wil Hamilton, and so wretched and absorbed as he was in his +sorrow, he had not been conscious of the approach of any one, and lay +as motionless as if he were dead. + +Lady Elaine’s first thought was that he had met with some accident, and +was unconscious. + +But with all her delicacy and gentle breeding, she was brave at heart, +and possessed a latent energy and force which few gave her credit for. + +Lightly and as fleet as a deer, she sped over the turf, and knelt +beside the prostrate man, sweeping back the moist brown locks from his +forehead as she did so. + +“Wil, Wil--oh! is anything the matter? are you hurt?” she cried, her +voice shaking with the great fear that had taken possession of her. + +In an instant he had sprung to his feet, and stood looking down upon +her, as if he thought her some thunderbolt which had just missed +striking him dead; while she, startled by the suddenness of his act, +sat staring up at him, every atom of strength and color forsaking her. + +“I thought you had gone to the springs,” Wil said, abruptly, almost +rudely, after a moment. + +His voice was harsh and constrained, his face as white as her own, with +great, deep circles beneath his eyes, which were bloodshot, and were so +full of pain that Lady Elaine almost cried out as she looked at them. + +“No. I--I did not care to go,” she returned, struggling to her feet and +shrinking slightly from him. + +She felt as if she had no right to be there--as if she had intruded +upon him and his grief, whatever it might be. She would have given +worlds to have been anywhere else at that moment. + +He looked at her curiously. + +“She did not care to go!” he thought, wonderingly. + +But Philip had gone with the rest, and it seemed strange that he should +leave his betrothed behind; and if they were happy lovers, it was even +more strange that she “did not care to go” with him. + +“Are you not well to-day?” he asked, less abruptly, and not knowing +what else to say, but realizing the absurdity of the question +instantly, for saving her momentary pallor, she had never looked better +or more lovely in her life. + +“Yes, I am well,” Lady Elaine replied, “but,” with a slight blush, “I +preferred to stay at home.” + +Her blush pierced him like a dagger. + +She was shy then; she had wanted to get a little used to her new +happiness before she appeared in public with her lover. + +The thought was nearly maddening, and before he was aware of it, a +groan burst from him. + +Lady Elaine advanced a step toward him at the sound, a wistful, +troubled look in her lovely eyes. + +“You are in trouble,” she said. “Won’t you tell me what it is?” + +“It is nothing--at least nothing that you can help,” he answered, +setting his teeth together with a snap. + +“Let me share it, then. You know, ‘A burden lighter grows when +shared,’” she said, but her red lips trembled even though she tried to +smile. “Perhaps,” she added, trying to speak more lightly, “your little +fairy or water-nymph, who went to sleep in the lily, has sent me here +to exorcise the evil spirit that vexes you.” + +He gave her a quick, startled glance, astonished that she should have +remembered his words, when doubtless she must have far pleasanter +things to think of now. + +“Ah! if you could--if----” he began, passionately, and then suddenly +checking himself. + +“Try me, Wil, and see,” she returned, reaching out her white hand, and +laying it gently, yet appealingly, on his arm, while her eyes seemed +pleading for his confidence. + +He seized her hand and lifted it to his burning lips. + +“Shall I try you? Dare I try you? You cannot mean what you say. You do +not even know what you are tempting me to,” he cried, wildly. + +She regarded him with surprise, but she did not withdraw her hand. It +lay perfectly passive in his. + +“I do not understand you,” she said. “How am I tempting you? Why do you +not dare to try me? You need not fear, Wil. I will not fail you.” + +“You ‘will not fail’ me,” he repeated, with trembling lips. “You +have failed me already. You are lost to me, and that is why I am so +wretched.” + +A dry sob broke from him as he said it. + +She had driven him desperate with her innocent words and questions, and +he poured forth his misery regardless of consequences. + +For one moment she stood regarding him with wonder-wide eyes, too +astonished to comprehend what he really meant. + +Then it began to dawn on her, and a burning blush overspread her fair +face; her white, golden-fringed lids drooped over her beautiful eyes, +and she stood silent and covered with confusion before him. + +She could not ask him how or why he regarded her as lost to him, +because that would seem to imply that she was not--that she loved him +before she was asked; so her lips were sealed and she was mute. + +“Have I startled you by this confession?” he resumed, bitterly, as he +marked how lovely she was in her maidenly modesty, and, having once +given the rein to his misery, he could not stop. “Have you not seen, +during all these weeks, how I have grown to love, to idolize you--how +my heart has melted before you--how I have had no will but yours, no +thought but for you? And now to lose you, to have you stolen from me +before my very eyes, and just when I was beginning to hope that I might +win you--oh, my darling; if I could but die here and now, at your feet, +I should be comparatively happy.” + +He wrung her hand in his vehemence so that at any other time she would +have cried out with pain; but she hardly felt it now. Her heart beat +with a strange new joy; he loved her--his wild words told her that +plainly enough--and she saw that this same love was causing him great +suffering, but just how and why she could not comprehend--she was +puzzled by what he had said. + +Her lids fluttered, she gave him one brief, bewailing glance, and +murmured: + +“I should not be happy--I do not want you to die, Wil; and--I do not +know what you mean by--by my being stolen from you, and all that +nonsense.” + +He caught his breath; there was no mistaking the glance she had given +him, nor the tender tone in which she had said she did not wish him to +die. + +Could it be possible that he had been deceiving himself after all? + +“Elaine, my darling, have I been a fool?” he cried; “dare I hope that +you----But tell me first, after I left you last night did not Philip +Paxton come to you and ask you to be his wife?” + +“Yes,” she answered, with downcast eyes and burning cheeks. + +“Ah!” he began, almost fiercely, “and you----” + +“I refused him, Wil,” holding out both her hands to him and looking +shyly up into his face, “is it that which has been troubling you so?” + +He caught her hands with a glad cry and drew her into his arms. + +“Not the refusal, surely,” he said, a joyous note in his trembling, +eager voice, “but the belief that you had accepted him.” + +“How could I do that, when----” Lady Elaine began, and then stopped +short in confusion. + +“When what, my darling?” + +“When I did not love him--when my heart has long belonged to some one +else--to you--Wil.” + +He bent and touched almost reverently the lips that had uttered this so +sweetly. + +“But,” she added, after a moment of silence, “what could have made you +imagine that I had accepted him?” + +Then he told her what he had seen--how, when having attended to his +mother’s request, he went back to the ante-room, intending to tell her +all the sweet story that was in his heart, he had seen her standing +there with her hand in Philip Paxton’s, and looking up smilingly into +his face, as if she had just granted him the favor for which he had +been suing, and it had seemed as if the very fountain of his life had +dried up in that moment, and all his future darkened. + +“Poor, foolish, faithless boy!” she said, while she caressingly toyed +with the rings of moist hair which lay upon his forehead, “where +were your eyes, that you could not read me better?--where were your +intuitions, that they did not tell you what others have learned all too +readily? It is a pity that your fairy did not whisper something in your +ear before you brought her to me in the lily.” + +“How could she--she was asleep, you know,” Wil retorted, archly; but +drawing the fair girl closer to him with a sort of exultant clasp, all +the pain gone like magic from his face, all the misery from his eyes. + +“True; I had forgotten that,” she replied, with a clear, sweet laugh. + +She told him as briefly as she could all that had passed between Philip +and herself, for she felt that he had a right to know it; and then--the +moments slipped unheeded by, as they always do with all lovers, until +warned by the blowing of a horn at a distant farmhouse that it was high +noon, and they must return to Hazelmere, or a detachment would be sent +out to search for them. + +“I can scarcely believe that I am the same person that I was two hours +ago,” Wil said, as they arose, and he drew Lady Elaine’s hand within +his arm, though still retaining it in his own. “To think that I came +out here the most miserable wretch on the face of the earth, and now +I am returning the happiest mortal that walks, and with the Lily of +Mordaunt all my own!” + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + +DISAPPOINTMENT. + + +Wil Hamilton went directly to his father upon his return with Lady +Elaine from the forest, and told him that he had won her for his wife, +asking, as a mere matter of form--for, of course, he knew that he could +make no objections--his sanction to the engagement. + +It is needless to say that Sir Anthony received the news with delight, +and offered his heartiest congratulations. + +“It it a fine thing for you, Wil, my boy, not only to have won so +lovely a bride, but with her so magnificent a fortune. Lady Elaine’s +twenty thousand a year, together with your own expectations, will +enable you to do about as you like for the remainder of your life,” he +remarked, rubbing his smooth, plump hands together, with a satisfied +smile. + +Wil looked up at him and flushed hotly. + +“I give you my word of honor, sir, I never once thought of her money,” +he said, earnestly. + +Sir Anthony laughed. + +“Young love forgets a good many things,” his father returned, +indulgently. “Nevertheless that does not alter the convenience of the +matter. A purse full of gold is something not to be despised at any +time.” + +“I shall settle every pound upon her,” Wil Hamilton answered, proudly, +and looking somewhat disturbed. The subject of Lady Elaine’s money +jarred upon him, somehow. “And it will make no difference with me--it +will not change my plans for the future in the least. I am just as +ambitious to make a name and position for myself as I have ever been.” + +“I am glad to hear that, Wil,” Sir Anthony responded, gravely, and +with a look of pride and fondness at the manly, self-reliant fellow, +“for I am ambitious for you; you are my only boy, and I want you to be +heard from in the future. I want the name of Hamilton to continue to +be honored for all time. But aside from all pecuniary benefit, I am +very much pleased at your prospective marriage with Lady Elaine. As my +ward I have admired her excessively--as a daughter I shall love her +tenderly.” + +“Thank you, sir,” Wil said, with glowing eyes, and shook his father’s +hand with a warmth that amused that gentleman greatly. + +Thus the matter was settled most happily for all parties, and the next +morning the engagement was announced. + +Sir Anthony did it in his happiest manner. + +Going up to Lady Elaine, as soon as breakfast was over, he took the +blushing girl by the hand, and, turning toward the household, remarked: + +“My friends, I am so proud and happy that I cannot refrain from asking +you to congratulate me upon the prospect of having another daughter in +my house.” + +Of course the family and friends gathered around Lady Elaine +immediately, to offer congratulations and express their approbation; +and for a while there was a perfect babel of good wishes, and rejoicing +over the happy young couple. + +Philip Paxton alone held aloof from this gay group. He gave one look +of blank astonishment at the lovely girl, when Sir Anthony made this +announcement; then, his face crimson with anger and disappointment, he +abruptly turned and left the room. + +The next time he met her alone he faced her with a bitter sneer. + +“My faith in womankind has had a severe blow,” he said; “you told me, +Lady Elaine, that your hand was pledged to no one.” + +“I simply told Mr. Paxton the truth--I was betrothed to no one at that +time,” she replied, but lifting her bright head with a haughty gesture, +as if to warn him that she was not accountable to him for her actions. + +“You have made a bad man of me,” he retorted, fiercely, a dark look on +his handsome face; “you have changed my whole nature--if I become a +hardened wretch--if my career is marked by reckless deeds and hardened +acts, you will know what has caused it. You could have molded me like +wax--with you as the guiding spirit of my life I could have been +everything that was good and noble; but now--I believe I shall go to +the devil just as fast as ever I can!” + +Lady Elaine flushed crimson at this mad and reckless speech, yet there +was much of pity in her heart for him. If he really loved her, as he +professed to, his sufferings must be akin to Wil’s when he believed her +lost to him, but for all that she felt that he had no right to address +her in the way he had done. + +“Mr. Paxton,” she returned, gently, yet with a dignity that awed him, +“for all the evil which you may do in the future no one save yourself +will in any way be responsible. You alone will be held accountable. +No one can regret more than I the unfortunate circumstances of night +before last, and I would gladly have saved you all the pain of that +occasion had I been able to do so; but I hold myself guiltless of +any wrong to you, for I never suspected, until that moment, that you +entertained any other feelings save those of friendship toward me.” + +“You must have been blind, then,” he muttered between his closely-shut +teeth. + +“I think more than I have been blind,” she answered, with a vivid +flush, as she looked back and remembered in how many ways she must have +betrayed her deep and growing attachment for Wil, and yet he, the most +interested of all, had failed to read her heart. + +“Perhaps,” she added, more gently than she had yet spoken, “we have all +been so absorbed in our own feelings that we have been blind to those +of others. Mr. Paxton, believe me, I would like to continue to regard +you as a friend for the sake of Wil, and----” + +“Wil Hamilton and I can never be friends after this!” he cried, +excitedly. + +Lady Elaine’s eyes flashed a dangerous light, her lips curled with +scorn at this cowardly speech. + +“What were you going to say?” he queried, remembering that he had +interrupted her. + +“It does not matter,” she returned, with cold dignity; “but I think +it is hardly the part of a gentleman to address a lady as you have +addressed me to-day. I am in no way accountable to you, nor is Mr. +Hamilton, for the compact which exists between us, and for you to +assume that we have injured you thereby is a presumption for which I +have no toleration.” + +With these words she turned quickly away and left him to his own +uncomfortable reflections. + +He ground his teeth savagely as he watched her graceful figure moving +swiftly down the walk where they had met, and finally vanished into the +house. + +“I am a blundering idiot,” he cried, fiercely, “or I should have held +my tongue and not aroused her contempt for me in this manner. I shall +have to take a new tack, or I shall make enemies of the whole family, +and that I cannot afford to do, for there is no telling how much I may +need their influence in the future.” + +That afternoon’s mail brought him a letter which made him grow white as +death, and swear deep and terrible oaths, though his lips had never in +his life before been guilty of such profanity. + +It informed him that a speculation in which he had been engaged had +burst like a bubble, and the large amount of money which he had put +into it was lost--gone forever. + +“There goes three of the best years of my life! Curse the luck!” he +cried, with exceeding bitterness, as he crushed the letter in his hands +and paced his chamber like a caged animal. + +He fought a fierce battle with himself over this loss for more than an +hour, and at the end of that time he exclaimed, with sudden resolution: + +“I vow I’ll do it! I am ruined, but if I could only have gained my +point with Lady Elaine it would have made no difference. I should not +have minded my loss at all. Why in time couldn’t she have bestowed her +favor upon me rather than upon that fool of a boy, who will have money +enough of his own? But ‘half a loaf is better than no bread at all,’ as +the saying has it. I’ll see what headway I can make with the other one. +I believe the girl likes me, or could be made to, if I exerted myself a +trifle to be agreeable to her, and I’m sure she’s an enchanting little +witch, and my fallen fortunes must be mended in some way. I swear I +cannot submit to such arbitrary impoverishment, and begin way down at +the bottom of the ladder again.” + +Evening found Philip Paxton as smiling and serene as if there were no +such things as poverty and disappointment in the world. + +There was not a trace of the storm and bitterness which had raged +within him during the day, upon his smooth brow nor in his clear, +smiling eyes. + +He met Wil as cordially as if he had not been the instrument of his +shattered hopes, and the demons of jealousy and hatred still raging in +his own heart. + +“You’re in luck, my boy,” he said, clapping him heartily on the +shoulder, as he came upon him standing alone upon the porch. + +Wil looked up in surprise, and searched his friend’s face with a keen +glance. + +“I couldn’t offer my congratulations with the crowd this morning,” +Philip went on; “but I hope they are none the less acceptable coming at +this hour.” + +“No,” Wil replied, his face lighting up as he grasped his friend’s hand +warmly. “I was only afraid I should not have them at all. I feared that +this might--might make feeling between us, for--of course I knew--I +could not help seeing that you were interested in the same quarter,” he +concluded, with some embarrassment. + +“I was--I confess it, Wil; but--but of course only one could win, and +the loser must make the best of it, I suppose.” + +Some one came out and joined them just then, and Wil made no reply; +but he was intensely relieved to find that there would be no rupture +between them, and never suspected that the bitterness in Philip’s heart +had been covered up from motives of policy. + +Later in the evening he passed near where Lady Elaine was sitting, and +stopping an instant before her, he said, in a low tone, intended only +for her ear: + +“My presumption was intolerable. I assure your ladyship I shall never +cease to regret it.” + +Without waiting for her to reply, he bowed and passed on, while Lady +Elaine thought, with a glance of pity: + +“Poor fellow! His disappointment made him forget himself.” + +But a change had come over Arley Wentworth since the engagement of her +friend had been announced. + +Hitherto she had always been the first to notice and hail the +appearance of Philip Paxton in the drawing-room, and nearly always +managed by some pretty pretext or other, to claim his attention, and, +by her light badinage and repartee, keep him chained to her side until +Wil could secure Lady Elaine to himself. + +When, however, the engagement was announced that morning, she had shot +one furtive, triumphant glance at the discomfited suitor, and then +heaved a sigh of relief, which had in it something of pain as well. + +“Well, my strategic campaign is at an end, and I am glad of it. I don’t +believe I could have kept it up much longer,” she said; and there was a +worn, weary expression on her young face, which, had any one seen it, +might have led to suspect that, perhaps, she had sustained some wounds +in the battle herself. + +But when Lady Elaine went upstairs, she ran into her room with a +radiant face. + +“You darling!” she cried, winding her arms about her waist, and giving +her a delightful little hug. “So you’ve struck your colors at last! +Here I have been manœuvring for this very thing for a long time, and +mentally scolding you for your obstinacy all the while.” + +“My obstinacy?” Lady Elaine cried, blushing with confusion, though a +happy smile wreathed her red lips. + +“Yes, your obstinacy. You persisted in keeping aloof from Wil unless +he almost forced himself upon you; and then you would receive the +attentions of Mr. Paxton, though it made Wil perfectly wretched, and, +besides all that, when it was expressly understood that he was to be my +especial cavalier. Where were your eyes, that you could not see that +your handsome lover was nearly distracted with envy and jealousy?” + +“Arley, Arley, do stop that unruly tongue of yours, or I shall begin to +think that some one else is nearly distracted with envy and jealousy,” +Lady Elaine retorted, laughing. + +Arley Wentworth blushed a fiery crimson. + +“I don’t care what any one thinks now that it is all settled between +you and Wil,” she said defiantly. “I knew from the first,” she ran on, +“that he was over head and ears in love with you, and that his life +would be ruined if he lost you, and besides----” + +“Besides what, dear?” her companion asked, as she hesitated and looked +up at her, archly. + +“I knew that you loved him, and I thought it too bad that a lovely +romance should be spoiled just for the want of a little manœuvring; +yes, I will confess it now,” she continued, in reply to Lady Elaine’s +look of surprise, “I have interposed in every way to help you and +Wil along--I pounced upon your would-be knight whenever I saw him +approaching you ‘with malice aforethought,’ and bore him away a +captive, bound with invisible chains; I assure you, you have no idea +what an accomplished strategist I have grown to be during the last +three or four weeks. You were right the other day--I did set a little +trap for you, and you fell into it charmingly. If I had found that you +did not love Wil, I should, of course, have allowed matters to go on +as they would, and Philip Paxton might have won you and welcome if he +could. But it is a load off my mind to have the thing settled, and just +as it should be, too. I know you will be delightfully happy, for Wil is +a jewel, and you’re another; so take my blessing, and joy go with it +forever.” + +The gay girl had rattled this off with a nervous merriment which was +very unnatural, and as soon as she had finished she gave her fair +companion a hasty kiss, and then bounded out of the room without giving +her any opportunity to reply. + +But if Lady Elaine could have seen her five minutes later, stretched +upon her bed, in an abandonment of passionate weeping, she would have +wondered more than ever at her mood. + +But the storm was not of long duration. Arley Wentworth was very proud, +and she was not long in resenting the weakness that had made her weep. + +She started suddenly up, her face one sheet of flame. + +“I will not be a fool,” she cried, clenching her small hands, and +lifting her head defiantly, “if I could steep my thoughts in oblivion +I would do it. At all events I will not ‘wear my heart upon my sleeve +for daws to peck at’--that is a very new sentiment,” she added, with a +bitter smile, “but it appears to be a very apt quotation for my case.” + +She went to her basin and dashed the cold water over her flushed face, +bathing it until she had removed all traces of her recent tears; then +dressing herself with unusual care, she went gayly down to dinner, and +was so charming and brilliant that she was the very life of the party +throughout the evening. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + +“I DO NOT BELIEVE YOU.” + + +Thus, for more than a week, this farce went on. + +Philip Paxton was wretched from his losses and disappointment, yet, +with the determination not to succumb, and with his new object in view, +he strove to keep up an appearance of content and enjoyment which he +was far from feeling. + +The next day he resolved to meet strategy with strategy. + +Several of the guests who remained at Hazelmere since the dinner party +departed that morning, leaving the family and original guests by +themselves. + +On the south side of the house there was a little piazza shaded by a +stately old beech, and where a hammock had been swung to tempt anybody +who might be lazy, or wish to while away a quiet hour or two with an +interesting book. + +This was a favorite resort of Arley’s, and now, believing herself free +and unwatched, she stole thither with book and pillow and snugly laid +herself away to enjoy the supposed liberty. + +I should not have used the word enjoy, for she was very miserable. + +Nothing but her pride kept her from giving up the battle and running +away from both her trouble and friends, for she had promised to remain +several weeks longer at Hazelmere. + +But if she went she would have to give some reason for breaking her +promise, and her face burned and her blood boiled with shame and +indignation as she thought of the true and only one that she could give. + +“Was a woman ever such a fool before?” she would cry in scorn and rage +day after day, as she took herself to task for her folly. “Am I so much +weaker and lower than others that I should thus disgrace my sex?” + +But it was of no use to upbraid herself thus; she knew that she loved +Philip Paxton with all the strength and passion of her young heart, +and having given that love unasked, the knowledge brought her only +wretchedness and shame. + +Without warning, the man of whom she had been thinking appeared on the +scene. + +“You do not find your book very interesting, do you, Miss Wentworth?” +he said, coming slowly up the steps, and standing directly before her, +for he did not intend that she should circumvent him this time. His +patience was at an end, and he was determined to settle an important +question without further delay. + +Arley started at the sound of his voice like a frightened fawn, the +rich color, which she tried in vain to repress, surging to her temples. + +“How do you know?” she demanded, with a pretty air of defiance, as she +gracefully swung herself to a sitting posture in the hammock, the toes +of her tiny slippers just touching the floor of the veranda. + +If she had been caught napping, she meant to fight hard to preserve her +secret intact. + +“How do I know?” he repeated with a laugh that was very pleasant to her +ears. “Because you have been lying here for the last half hour, and +have not turned a single leaf.” + +“And you have been watching me?” she flashed back, indignantly, but +turning hot and cold as she remembered of what and whom she had been +thinking during that half hour. + +“Yes, I confess it. I could not help it, you made such an attractive +picture, and since you would not allow me to come near you, I have been +obliged to worship at a distance,” he returned, throwing a sort of sad +tenderness into his tones. + +“Mr. Paxton! I do not understand. You speak in enigmas,” Arley said, +assuming a look of cool surprise, though her nerves tingled to her very +finger tips at his words. + +“Don’t you understand, Miss Wentworth?” he inquired, bending a +scrutinizing glance upon her. “Do you suppose I can believe that your +strange coldness and avoidance of me during the past fortnight have +been wholly unstudied on your part? I think I owe it to myself, and to +you as well, to inquire into the cause of your displeasure, and how I +have given offense.” + +“I am not displeased--you have not offended me,” stammered Arley, +feeling miserably guilty for the way she had been treating him; then, +conscious that she was making a worse blunder, she would have bitten +her tongue off for having admitted so much. + +“Then why on earth have you treated me so, Arley?” he burst forth, with +a show of passion. “Pardon me, Miss Wentworth,” he continued, more +quietly, “I am forgetting myself; but I am in trouble, and I am going +away from Hazelmere. But I could not go until I had made my peace with +you; we were such good friends for a while that I could not endure the +thought of leaving you offended with me.” + +Arley had lost all her brilliant color during the latter part of this +speech, and she forgot everything but that he was in trouble and going +away, and she would be thrice wretched when she could see him no more. + +“In trouble, Mr. Paxton?” she repeated, with gentle questioning, and +raising her great dark eyes to his with a look which thrilled him in +spite of the fact that he was playing a treacherous part. “I am very +sorry.” + +“Thank you; and will you miss me?--will you be sorry to have me go?” he +asked, bending nearer to her. + +But Arley was too proud and high-spirited to fall into his arms in +such a way as this. She could not forget how eager he had been in +his pursuit of Lady Elaine, and drawing back a trifle, she replied, +somewhat coldly: + +“It is always unpleasant to have an agreeable party broken up, and I +am sure that Annie and Wil will be sorry to have any of their guests +depart.” + +Philip Paxton stood thinking a moment what it would be best to say +next, and during that moment Arley arose. + +She dare not trust herself longer alone with him; she had nearly +betrayed herself once already, and she was anxious to get away to the +solitude of her own room and out of all danger of a second yielding to +such weakness. + +“I shall have to ask you to excuse me, Mr. Paxton,” she said, looking +at her tiny watch, and then holding it up to him with an arch look. +“See how late it is getting to be. You know Annie is to have a lawn +party this afternoon, and I must go and make myself as bewildering as +possible for the occasion. You do not go to-day, I hope?” she added, as +if that was a matter of secondary importance. “It would be a pity for +you to lose all the fun.” + +He bit his lips with vexation, for she was making the task he had set +himself to accomplish abominably hard. + +“Why will you be so obtuse?” he cried, growing crimson to his very +brow--“you compel me to be very abrupt for--I came here to tell you--to +ask you--to be my wife! Arley, I love you.” + +It was very abrupt surely--very awkward, though there was a ring of +desperation in his words that suited Arley better than if it had been a +more finished declaration. + +Her pulses leaped and bounded within her with joy, with which, however, +very much of pain was mingled. + +But her reply was as abrupt as his avowal had been, and it amazed and +confounded him with its independent frankness. + +She lifted her face--very beautiful it was, too, with those crimson +spots on her cheeks--and looking him straight in the eye, said: + +“Mr. Paxton, I do not believe you.” + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + +BETROTHED LOVERS. + + +“Miss Wentworth! I--excuse me--did I understand you aright? What reason +can you have for doubting my assertion?” Philip Paxton asked, looking +exceedingly astonished and somewhat crestfallen at Arley’s startling +statement. + +“Shall I tell you my reason?” Arley asked, very white about the mouth, +but meeting his flashing eye with a fearless, resolute look. + +“Certainly. I think I have a right to an explanation. It is rather hard +for a lady to tell a gentleman that she doubts his word, when he lays +bare the secrets of his heart to her,” Philip replied, with an injured +air. + +“Very well, I shall tell you then, but it will not be pleasant for you +to hear,” Arley replied, in a straightforward way. “I do not believe +in your professed affection for me, because I know that ever since you +came to Hazelmere, until quite recently, you have been trying to win +Lady Elaine. + +“No, let me go on,” she said, as he seemed about to interrupt her, “for +I have a confession to make with this statement. You have sought her +ladyship upon every occasion, appropriating her to yourself whenever +you could do so, and knowing all the time, as all of us have known, +that Wil Hamilton had given her the deepest devotion of his heart. +I knew that Lady Elaine returned his affection, and, knowing this, +I determined that, if possible, the course of true love should, for +once, run smoothly. And so I--I have tried to thwart you whenever you +attempted to force your attentions upon her. I do not wonder that you +are surprised,” she continued, as she saw him start and change color, +“but it was for this purpose that I sacrificed my maiden modesty, +seeking your society, laughing and jesting with you, and keeping +you by my side by every art which I could call to my aid. Yes, I +played this part for the sole purpose of thwarting your designs, and +to allow the lovers all the enjoyment possible; and when my end was +achieved--when they announced their engagement, I--I couldn’t keep up +the farce any longer. I hated myself for having appeared--and I assure +you it was all pretense--the bold and forward girl who had seemed to +run after you and court your favor upon every occasion; and--and the +reaction has perhaps made me treat you with more coldness and reserve +than I ought to have done. So you perceive, knowing as I do that you +were interested in Lady Elaine, it is not strange that I do not believe +you when you say that you love me. + +“But I cannot understand,” she went on, drawing herself up haughtily, +“why you should make such an avowal to me, unless indeed you were +driven to it from pique. I have heard of such things, but I think you +might at least have spared me such a mortification.” + +She would have passed him as she ceased speaking, for she had wrought +herself up to the highest pitch of indignation, and was quivering in +every nerve; but he placed himself directly in her path, and would not +let her go. + +“No! no! I swear that pique has nothing whatever to do with it!” he +cried, eagerly. “Hear me! You have accused me, and now you must listen +to my defense!” + +Like a flash of light the thought came to him, that perhaps while she +was spreading this net for his unsuspecting feet, she had been caught +in its meshes herself--while she had sought to keep him from winning +the love of Lady Elaine, she had learned to love him before she knew it. + +During the moment or two that he stood looking down into her expressive +face, and trying to think what to say to defend himself, he had grasped +and analyzed her feelings, and resolved to govern himself accordingly. + +“Arley,” he said, in a quick, earnest voice, “at any other time, under +any other circumstances, I should have been mortified and angry at your +frank confession; for a man does not like to be told that he has been +outwitted by a girl, even though the one who has accomplished it may +have twined herself about his heart in a way to make him love her very +tenderly. But, forgive me, if I say that I am led to believe that your +eyes must have been sharpened by something more than common observation +to make you read me so well as you have done. Darling”--and as he +uttered this word, in a low, thrilling tone, he reached down and took +possession of her two trembling hands--“let me ‘confess’ now. That +first evening when I met Lady Elaine I thought I had never seen any one +so lovely. I was bewildered, fascinated, and I said to myself: ‘This +is love at first sight.’ I did seek her--I own it--for she seemed to +possess a strange power which drew me almost irresistibly toward her. +But when I was thrown, or ‘trapped,’ as you say, into your society, +I began to feel that the spice and fire of your more ardent nature +was more congenial to me; your vivacity, your wit and never-failing +spirits, touched a chord in my heart that had never vibrated before, +and I became an only too willing captive in the net which you say you +spread for me. It is you whom I love, and you alone. Arley, I want +you for my wife, and I should have told you this before but for the +coldness and inexplicable neglect with which you have treated me since +you began to hate yourself for making me love you. Dear, this is my +trouble, or at least a portion of it--this was one reason why I was +going away from Hazelmere. I could not remain and endure your aversion. +Will you not bid me stay?--whisper but one word to tell me that I +may hope, and I shall be happy. Do not tell me again that you do not +believe me--try me, test me, and let me prove my sincerity to you.” He +spoke earnestly and passionately, and his words were very sweet to the +ears of the listening girl. + +Her heart longed to believe him--to trust him and be happy, though +the still, small voice of her better judgment bade her “wait and be +careful.” + +Still his words seemed so plausible and sincere; it looked reasonable, +she thought, that he should be at once attracted by Lady Elaine, who +was so much more beautiful--at least in her opinion--than any one else. +Everybody was attracted to her, but it did not follow that everybody +must fall hopelessly in love with her. + +It looked reasonable, too--though, perhaps, not very flattering to +her--that he should not fully realize the state of his feelings toward +her--Arley--until the great heiress had been won by some one else, and +he began to miss her society, which she had taken such pains to make so +fascinating to him; and so reasoning thus--perhaps she was very weak, +but she could not help it--she yearned to accept all that he offered +her. + +She stood with her face downcast, hesitating and trembling before him, +not even withdrawing her hands from his clasp, so intent was she trying +to analyze her own feelings and his professions of attachment. + +Her hesitancy emboldened him, and enfolding those small hands still +closer in his clasp, he pleaded: + +“Arley, something makes me hope, in spite of all the hard things that +you have said to me; tell me that you trust me.” + +“Oh, if I might!” she cried, with an intensity that startled him, while +at the same time it told him that she did love him--that his cause was +won. + +As she spoke she flashed an eager, searching glance into his face--a +glance that sought to read his very soul. + +“My darling!” Philip cried, joyfully, “if you did not have some love +for me you never would have said that. You may--you must trust me, and +I will prove so loyal and true, so fond and devoted, that, by and by, +you will wonder how it was possible for you ever to doubt me.” + +Looking down into that beautiful, blushing face, into those glorious +dark eyes, Philip Paxton’s heart was stirred with tenderer feelings +than it had ever experienced before, and he really meant at that moment +all that he said; really believed that he should prove the loyal man +and true that he had promised to be. + +He did not know his own weakness--who does, in fact?--he had not a +suspicion of the temptations which in the future were to try the +material of which he was made. It is so easy to make resolutions and +promises; it is so hard, in our own strength, to keep them. + +And lovely, pure-hearted, generous Arley Wentworth, won by the +pleadings of her own heart, and his persuasive voice, smiled shyly, +and, still looking into his eyes, which seemed so frank and truthful, +said tremulously: + +“I would like to trust you--I will trust you, Philip,” and her fate was +sealed. + +He drew her to him with a glad cry, and touched his lips to her burning +brow; and to his honor be it said, he knew then that, fortune or no +fortune, she was dearer to him than any woman in the world. + +At the same time he knew, also, that he never should have asked her to +marry him had it not been for her twenty thousand pounds. + +“You do love me, Arley?” he whispered. + +“Haven’t I confessed it enough yet to satisfy you?” she asked, archly. + +“No, I shall want to hear it again and again. Tell me, when did you +first discover that you cared for me?” + +“Must I go away down into the valley of humiliation, and own that +I lost my heart during that first ride from Horsham station to +Hazelmere?” Arley retorted, laughing, but with her face covered with +blushes. + +“Then I do not see how you needed to have treated me as you have done +during the last fortnight,” Philip replied, regarding her thoughtfully. + +“I was obliged to in order to hide my secret,” Arley answered. “When +Wil’s engagement was announced I began to be very much ashamed of the +part I had been playing. I could not bear that you should think me +forward and unmaidenly, while, for the world, I would not have you or +any one else suspect that I had given you my love unsolicited, and so I +concealed my feelings under an assumed coldness.” + +“Well, I am bound to confess that you are an honest little body,” +Philip said, laughing. + +“Thank you; I never tried to be anything else,” replied truthful Arley. + +Philip winced at this unconscious reproof, for he felt that however +much he might be interested in her now, he had not been strictly honest +in asking her to be his wife. + +“I do not think I shall leave Hazelmere for a few days longer,” he +said, smiling. “May I announce another engagement this evening?” + +“If you wish,” Arley answered, frankly. “I have no desire to keep it +secret.” + +And so it was made known at dinner-time, to the surprise of every one, +that Arley Wentworth and Philip Paxton were betrothed lovers. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + +THE FIRST WEDDING. + + +“Do you love him, Arley?” + +“Why, my darling Lily of Mordaunt! how can you ask such a question? Do +you suppose I should have accepted him if I had not?” + +“I hope not--I trust not; yet I--it is very unexpected to me--it +seems very strange,” sighed the gentle Elaine, a perplexed expression +clouding her lovely face. + +She had been perfectly amazed when Philip Paxton made known the fact of +his engagement to Arley, and as soon as she could catch her by herself, +she assailed her with the above question, while her heart was filled +with a strange foreboding on her account. + +She had grown to feel a deep and abiding love for the bright and +interesting girl, who, though nearly two years older than herself, +appeared to be that much younger; and Arley seemed to reciprocate this +affection, notwithstanding that until very recently they had been +utter strangers to each other. + +One day she impulsively threw her arms around Lady Elaine’s neck, and +exclaimed: + +“How I wish you were my sister! You have no idea how I have always +longed for a sister, and if the fates had only given you to me I should +be supremely happy.” + +“Why, how singular! I have often wished the same thing since I became +acquainted with you,” returned the Lily of Mordaunt, with a look of +surprise. + +“Perhaps the fact that we are both orphans has caused it,” she added, +after a moment; “but I must confess, Arley, that I have never seen any +one who has won her way so securely into my heart as you have done.” + +“That ought to make me very happy, and it does, dear,” Arley returned, +kissing her with tears in her eyes. + +“I should have had a sister if she had lived,” Lady Elaine resumed, +“and she would have been just about your age, too. It has been a source +of great sorrow to me that she could not have been spared.” + +“How old was she when she died?” Arley asked. + +“A mere baby, not two years old, and I never saw her, because she died +before I was born; but I was never weary of hearing mamma talk about +her. She was entirely different from me, too, resembling mamma, who +had dark hair and eyes, while I am a thorough Mordaunt in form, and +feature, and complexion.” + +“What a strange world this is!” Arley remarked, reflectively; “some +people have so many to love them and others so few. But, dear Elaine, I +am happy to have won your affection, and I hope that this friendship, +which amounts almost to sisterhood, will last throughout our whole +life.” + +“I know of nothing that would cause me greater pain than to have it +broken,” Lady Elaine said, with a little sigh of apprehension, as she +thought of Philip, and wondered how this marriage with Arley would +affect it in the future. + +“Let us put a seal upon it,” she added, eagerly, after a moment; “let +us exchange rings, Arley. You have a queer twisted ring on your third +finger that I have admired ever since I first saw it; let me have it, +and I will give you this in return,” and she drew off a lovely emerald +surrounded by tiny pearls as she spoke. + +“No, indeed, Elaine; that would not be a fair exchange at all,” Arley +opposed. “That is a very costly ring, while mine, though exceedingly +odd, is a simple affair, which I bought as a guard to this diamond that +grandpa gave me two years ago.” + +“Never mind; I want it,” persisted Lady Elaine, “and I want you to have +this; so, if there are no precious associations connected with it, put +it here on this finger, and let me put mine upon yours.” + +She held out her slender hand as she ceased speaking, and Arley +obediently slipped the twisted ring upon the third finger. + +Then taking Arley’s hand, she put the emerald above the diamond. + +“With this ring I wed thee, dear,” she said, with a fond smile, but +with a little tremulousness in her tones; “so remember that you are my +especial friend for all time, in sickness or in health, for better or +for worse, it will be all the same--be sure that you never forget it, +Arley.” + +Arley Wentworth kissed her with trembling lips. + +“You would compel any one to love you almost against their will,” she +said, “but I certainly never shall forget.” + + * * * * * + +The next two weeks passed so pleasantly and harmoniously, the three +pairs of lovers were so devoted and apparently so happy in each other, +that an observer would undoubtedly have augured a life of uninterrupted +bliss for them all. + +At the end of that time Philip Paxton said he must return to London, +for his business required his attention, but at Wil’s request he +promised to run down to Hazelmere every Saturday and spend the Sabbath +as long as Arley should remain a guest there. + +Annie Hamilton would not consent to spare her friend until after the +wedding, which was to occur now in about a month. + +The four weeks seemed actually to melt away, and were gone almost +before they realized it, and the important day dawned bright and fair. + +The bride was, of course, lovely in white satin, with the usual +accompaniments--the mistlike veil and pure fragrant orange-blossoms; +while the two bridesmaids--Lady Elaine, in her rich, cream-white silk, +garnished with wreaths of forget-me-nots and pearls, and Arley, in pale +pink, with great Marechal Neil roses drooping gracefully here and there +amid folds of frostlike lace--were almost, if not quite, as attractive +as the gentle bride herself. + +Wil Hamilton and Philip Paxton were, of course, the “best men,” and +both made a fine, manly appearance. + +The wedding breakfast was pronounced “elegant,” and everything passed +off in the smoothest and most approved manner. + +The gifts were numerous and costly, and, altogether, pretty Annie +Hamilton seemed to begin life with every prospect of future happiness +and prosperity. + +Then came the farewells and confusion of departure, and the happy pair +left Hazelmere for a tour of a month, after which they were to take up +their residence in their own home, which was not far from Sir Anthony’s +estate. + +Three days later Arley bade her friends “good-by” and returned to +London, where she was to make immediate preparations for her own +marriage, since Philip Paxton insisted that there was no reason why it +should be delayed, and had fixed the event for the 24th of October. + +Lady Elaine promised to go up to London to spend the last fortnight +with her, and all the Hamiltons were to be present at the very quiet +wedding. + + + + +CHAPTER X. + +ARLEY’S VISITOR. + + +Arley Wentworth’s wedding day was not a bright day. Thick clouds +overcast the sky, while a heavy fog--London’s customary wet +blanket--made everything dismal and gloomy enough. + +As already intimated, the wedding was to be a very quiet affair, for +the orphaned girl had no near relatives who were able to take the +burden and care of a large merry-making. + +There were only her aged aunt--a lady of between fifty and sixty--and +two or three distant cousins on her father’s side whom she could claim +as kindred, so only her intimate friends and a few of her acquaintances +were bidden to the feast. + +She was, however, to be married in St. George’s Church, Hanover Square, +and with all the pretty paraphernalia which a young and lovely bride +should have. This Miss McAllister, who herself was quite wealthy, had +insisted upon, and it was also in accordance with Arley’s own ideas and +wishes. + +“What makes you so quiet and sad, Arley, dear?” Lady Elaine asked of +her, as she was helping her dress for her marriage. + +Arley had whimsically insisted that she would have no maid about her +that morning; her own hands, with the assistance of her dearest friend, +should perform all the necessary offices for the occasion. + +“This is your bridal morn,” she continued, “and your face should be +bright, even if the day is not.” + +“Do I look sad, Elaine? I did not mean to,” Arley replied, with a +forced smile, but Lady Elaine, looking into her eyes, saw that they +were full of tears. + +“What is it, dear--what troubles you?” she asked, twining her arms +around her waist and drawing the troubled girl close to her. + +“I don’t know; perhaps it is a sort of reaction after all the +excitement and labor of preparation, but I feel strangely depressed +this morning, instead of looking forward to this event, which should +only bring me happiness and bright anticipations, I feel as if +something dreadful was about to happen to me,” Arley responded, as, +with a weary sigh, she dropped her head upon the shoulder of her friend. + +A cloud passed over Lady Elaine’s face. + +She had regarded her marriage with Philip Paxton, from the very first, +with feelings akin to these. + +She could not believe that he was true. + +Soon after his engagement to Arley, she had learned through Wil, who +heard of it while he was in London at one time, of his unfortunate +speculations, and the thought had forced itself upon her that he had +made his proposal to her merely to build up his fallen fortunes, and, +failing in that, he had then turned to Arley, as offering the next most +tempting bait with which to replenish his empty coffers. + +But, of course, she could not breathe anything of this to her friend; +she must not allow her to become any more despondent, so she said, as +cheerfully as she could: + +“These are nervous fears, I am afraid, darling, and you must not carry +that pale, sad face to St. George’s. What would Mr. Paxton think to +behold such a depressed-looking bride? If this is the way all brides +feel on their wedding-day, I am afraid I shall be tempted to put off +the evil hour as long as possible.” + +“When are you to be married, Elaine?” Arley asked, her thoughts for the +moment drawn away from herself. + +“I do not know, dear; no time has been set as yet. Wil told me last +evening that he had received his appointment.” + +“What appointment?” + +“Sure enough; I forgot that you did not know, but he did not wish to +tell any one until the matter was settled. He has been appointed to go +with Powell’s exploring expedition to Colorado, in the United States, +and so, of course, we do not think of a wedding until he returns.” + +“This is news, indeed,” Arley exclaimed, greatly surprised. “When did +he apply for this appointment?” + +“Sit down here and let me brush out your hair while I tell you about +it; we must not waste any time, you know,” Lady Elaine said, pushing +a low chair before a full-length mirror, and glad to find that any +subject would interrupt her friend’s sad thoughts. “He made his +application more than six months ago, and some time before my return +from school, or,” she said, with a little, tremulous smile, “he would +never have made it at all, since the thought of separation is very +painful to us both.” + +“I should think so,” Arley said, thoughtfully. + +“But his sense of honor,” Lady Elaine resumed, “will not allow him +to throw up the appointment, now that it has been awarded him. It is +quite a ‘feather in his cap,’ so to speak, for the American Congress +have authorized Professor Powell to explore the Colorado River and make +a scientific survey of the region drained by it and its tributaries, +together with a topographical survey by triangulation--its geology, +zoology, botany and ethnology. I hope you understand it all, dear,” +the young countess said, laughing at Arley’s puzzled expression. “I +don’t, and had to get Wil to write it down for me, and then I had to +study hard in order to be able to rattle off that much. But Wil is +very anxious to become a professor of geology and botany, and this +expedition offers a great deal in the way of instruction, as well as of +reputation, and he really cannot afford to lose the opportunity.” + +“Well, I should consider it a great trial to have him go,” Arley +returned, “for there must be many dangers attending such an expedition. +Just think of his going into that wilderness, with all its ravenous +beasts and Indians, and then--those horrid Mormons are out there, +somewhere, aren’t they?” + +“Yes,” Lady Elaine said, with a clear, silvery laugh, “but I have no +fear that the far-famed Brigham Young will ever make a convert of him. +It is a great trial, however,” she added, tears springing to her eyes, +“but if it is for the best, I am willing to submit to it.” + +“When does he go?” + +“Not until next April.” + +“And how long will he be gone?” + +“About six months, I believe; the weather will not admit of a longer +tour than that.” + +“You will be very lonely while he is gone, Elaine,” Arley said, in a +sympathetic tone. + +“Yes; but I must make the best of that, too,” was the smiling reply, +though tears hung trembling on the long golden lashes. + +“What is it, to ‘make the best of anything?’” Arley asked, thoughtfully. + +“I believe it is to accept whatever is sent to us as sent by an +All-wise Father for some good--to bear all ills patiently, and be +reverently grateful for whatever joy may fall to our lot; three words, +in fact, express it all--trust in God.” + +“Can you live out your life like that, Elaine?” Arley demanded almost +sharply, while she turned to look into those sweetly serious eyes +behind her. + +“I do not know what is before me, dear,” was the low, grave reply; “but +I mean to try to live out my life like that. At all events, I know +there is no real happiness in this world without faith in God.” + +Arley sighed. + +“I do not know much about it, I fear, and I have always felt that there +was something in your life which I do not possess, for you are so +happy, so lovable. But I will try to remember what you have said--how I +wish you could be with me always,” Arley said, wistfully. “Elaine,” she +added, “I believe the hardest part of to-day will be the parting from +you--perhaps that is why I am so depressed. I wonder why it is that I +love you so?” + +“Because of my love for you, no doubt, for love is begotten of love, +you know,” and Lady Elaine bent down and touched her lips to the +fragrant hair that she was plaiting. + +“When I return from my tour will you come and stay with me until Wil +returns to claim you?” Arley asked. + +“Yes, dear; I shall be very glad to come. It will help to pass the +time away until he gets back, and then, I suppose, you will come to +Hazelmere again to perform these bridal duties for me. There,” as she +put the last pin into the heavy braids of nut-brown hair, “this is +done, and I do not believe a French hair-dresser could have done any +better; now let me help you on with your dress. How perfectly lovely it +is!” + +She lifted an exquisite robe of silk and lace from the bed as she +spoke, and regarded it admiringly. + +“As Annie says,” she replied, “your taste is simply perfect, and you +will make a most charming bride.” + +Arley shivered as she slipped the dress over her head, and began to +help her fasten it. + +“Are you cold?” Lady Elaine asked, observing it. + +“No. I know the dress is lovely, but I do not like it. I believe I +shall never put it on again, and I would not wear it to-day if I had +anything else that would do,” Arley said, almost passionately. + +“Why? What a strange freak!” the young countess said while she regarded +the clouded face of the young bride-elect with a wistful glance. + +Arley did not offer to explain it, but there was a reason for this +sudden dislike of her wedding dress. + +It had arrived from Worth’s only a day or two previous, and she had +thought it the prettiest thing that she had ever seen, and when Philip +came in the evening she had coaxed him into her boudoir to look at it. + +It hung upon a form to keep it from being crushed, the lovely trail of +rich lace and gleaming silk floating out behind in the most graceful +folds. The corsage was cut low, and from this there extended a covering +for the neck made of a network of seed pearls, a fringe of the same +finishing it where it joined the body, and also the small, short +sleeves. + +“Do you care much for such pretty things?” she had asked him, with a +shy, yet happy glance, as she remembered when she was to wear it: “It +is all my own idea,” she added. “I planned and ordered it myself.” + +He stood looking at it a moment, not a ray of pleasure lighting up his +handsome face. + +“It must have cost a great deal of money,” was all he said, then he had +turned abruptly away from it, as if the sight annoyed him. + +Arley’s face flushed a vivid, angry scarlet. + +“Yes,” she answered, proudly lifting her pretty head, “one’s wedding +dress is expected to cost a great deal of money.” + +But it had been spoiled for her from that moment, and that was why she +had shivered when she had put it on. + +Her lover had thought more of the cost than of the beauty of the robe +in which she was to wed him; all the thought of pleasing him, all the +pleasure of happy fancies which she had woven in with it, for his sake +alone, went for nothing with him. But she told no one of it; she kept +it a secret in her own heart, and it had rankled there like a poisoned +arrow. + +She was as lovely as a dream, however, when she went down to meet him, +and she saw his eyes brighten with a pride which half made up for the +pain she had suffered over his former indifference. + +She would not have a single orange blossom in her wreath. + +“Let the poor things have a rest,” she had said, when discussing the +subject. “There will be one bride who will not load the air with their +perfume.” + +And so she had chosen instead a beautiful garland of pure white heath +with which to fasten her veil and delicate vines depending from it +trailed down the whole length of her lovely dress. + +She wore no ornaments, save the network of pearls over her neck, and +the fringe which finished it, and fell also over the tops of the long +gloves, which came up on her arms to meet the tiny sleeves of her dress. + +Save the delicate flush on her cheeks and her scarlet lips, with her +dark brows and hair she was as “pure and chaste as snow” from the crown +of her head to the sole of her white-slippered feet. + +“I am very proud of my love to-day,” Philip said, as he met her at the +foot of the stairs and led her out to the coach which was to convey her +to the church. + +Lady Elaine, who had followed her, heard the whispered words, and +prayed most fervently that he might always love and be “very proud” of +her. + +Arley’s heart bounded and thrilled over the fond sentence, little +dreaming how soon, alas! it was to be pierced with a cruel wound, the +scar of which would never disappear. + +Arriving at the church, they were rejoined by Philip and Wil, also +Annie Vane and her husband, and the _cortege_ swept up the aisle to the +altar, where a few brief moments were all that was necessary for the +words to be spoken which bound Arley Wentworth to Philip Paxton for +life. + +The wedding breakfast was much like other breakfasts on similar +occasions; the congratulations, good wishes and toasts were numerous +and hearty; the bridal presents were properly inspected and admired, +and finally the fair bride stole away to prepare for her journey. + +She was nearly ready to return to her guests when there came a tap upon +her door and a servant entered, bearing a note upon a silver tray. + +“What is this?” Arley asked, as she took it up and began to unfold it. + +“A young person, madam, called a few moments ago and asked for you,” +the servant replied. “I told her that you could not be disturbed +to-day, but she insisted that she must see you, and finally asked me if +I would bring you this note.” + +Arley now gave her attention to the note and read these few words, very +hastily written: + + Will you please grant me just a few moments, as I have something of + the greatest importance to tell you before you go away? I would not + have troubled you only that it is exceedingly important. + +There was no name signed to this strange request, which was written in +a delicate, ladylike hand. + +“How singular!” murmured Arley, while a nervous tremor ran over her +like a hot flame. + +“Where is the lady?” she asked, feeling instinctively that it was a +lady who had written the note. + +“In the crimson ante-room, and, there is a gentleman with her, +miss--madam.” + +Arley smiled at the girl’s correction in addressing her; then she said: + +“You may ask her to come up here. I think I can spare her ten minutes +as well as not,” she added to herself, “and I am really quite curious +to know what her important communication is.” + +The servant withdrew, and Arley stood looking out of the window, softly +humming a little air to herself and tapping out the time to it with her +pretty boot while she waited for her visitor. + +Never, as long as she lived, did she forget those few moments while she +tarried for the stranger. + +Her attitude, the room, with all its rich appointments, the graceful +sweep of the curtains near which she was standing, the foggy street +without, the leaden sky above, were all indelibly stamped upon her mind. + +She remembered, too, how happy she was--for her depression had all +vanished as if by magic--with what joy she looked forward to her +journey with her husband--her husband! How the words thrilled her as +she said them over to herself, with not a thought of the misery that +was rushing to overtake her like a swift destroyer. + +Then the door opened, and she turned to see a fair, young girl of about +her own age enter the room and come forward to meet her. + +She was slight and graceful in form; she had a fair complexion, with +great, dark-blue eyes, sunny-brown hair that waved prettily about her +forehead, a delicate, clear-cut face, and small, beautifully-shaped +hands and feet. + +How quickly and keenly Arley noted and took in all these details of her +person! + +How rapidly her eyes ran over every article of her dress, +marking everything, from the tasteful, becoming hat to the tiny, +perfectly-fitting boot, and yet there was nothing about the engaging +stranger to betray that she had come on an errand that was to dash the +cup of happiness from her lips, and rob her of everything that she +prized most in life. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + +I CANNOT GIVE YOU UP. + + +The young stranger appeared to be “every inch” the lady, and Arley +wondered more and more who she could be and what she could want, that +she should thus come to her on her wedding day; while, as she gazed +upon that refined and delicate face, there seemed to be some strangely +familiar look about it that puzzled her. + +She had been so intent upon reading her face that she had spoken no +word, and the young girl, who had advanced half way across the room, +suddenly stopped, as if ashamed at having intruded upon her. + +This act recalled Lady Arley to herself, and she went forward to greet +her, saying, with her usual cordial frankness: + +“You wish to see me--you have something to tell me? Will you please +tell me whom I have the pleasure of receiving?” + +The girl flushed a painful crimson at this question. + +“That, and that alone, is my errand here to-day--to tell you who I am, +though I shrink from giving you what, I fear, will be a painful shock,” +was the embarrassed and faltering reply. “My name is the counterpart +of your own, or at least, what your own has been until to-day--Arley +Wentworth!” + +Arley gave her a startled look, and grew a trifle pale at this strange +information. + +“I can tell you nothing of my parentage,” the girl continued, “for +I know nothing about it; that I have yet to learn from others. My +earliest recollections are of a very simple life with rough, but +kind-hearted people. The man whom I was taught to call and regard as my +father was a fisherman. + +“Upon one occasion a severe storm overtook him, and he was driven far +out to sea--in fact, his vessel came very near being wrecked, and he, +with his small crew, barely escaped with their lives. When the storm +passed, they patched up their injured craft as well as they could, and +then began their toilsome task of working back into port. + +“While thus engaged, one of the sailors descried a small object which +excited his curiosity, tossing about on the still angry waves, like +thistle-down upon the wind. He pointed it out to his captain, who also +became very curious about it, and immediately launched a boat for the +purpose of securing it. To his great astonishment he found it to be a +child, carefully wrapped in a rubber waterproof and lashed into the +tray of a trunk. At first they thought I was dead--for I was that +child--I was so benumbed with the cold and wet; but after working over +me for a while, they perceived signs of life, and persevering in their +efforts, they finally had the satisfaction of restoring me completely. +The captain took me home to his wife, and having no children of their +own, they concluded to adopt me, and I was named Ina Corrillion. + +“Their home was on the northern coast of Spain, not far from the city +of Bayonne, in France. It was a rude little hut, containing only three +small rooms, which were furnished, in the most meager manner, if, +indeed, they could be said to be furnished at all. + +“When I was twelve I was deprived, by accident, of even the care of +these good fisher folk, and again thrown a waif upon the world. A +heavy piece of timber, which was to be used in repairing the vessel +belonging to Carlos Corrillion--my so-called father--was being hoisted +to the deck, when the ropes gave way, and it came crashing down with +tremendous force. Carlos was standing directly beneath it, and his +wife, seeing his danger, sprang forward, thinking to ward off the fatal +blow; she made a misstep and fell, and both husband and wife were +crushed to death by the massive beam. + +“I will not go into detail now regarding their burial and what +followed, but simply state important facts. I was taken to Bayonne, +after all was over, and put into a charity school. + +“Carlos and Annette Corrillion were partly of French, partly Spanish +descent, and spoke the language of Spain in an incoherent fashion. Of +course this had become to me like my native tongue; but after I went +to reside with the sisters at Bayonne, I was taught both French and +English; and here, also, I began to experience a curiosity regarding my +parentage. One of the sisters there was very kind to me, interesting +herself in an unusual degree in my progress, and assisting me over many +rough places, until I grew to love her dearly. One day I told her all +that I knew of my story, and showed her my little bundle of clothes +which Carlos had kept. She examined them very critically, and became +quite excited over them. There was a little dress and skirt, made of +the finest material, and beautifully embroidered; a tiny pair of lisle +thread stockings, and shoes; a little chain of fine gold, which had +been clasped around my neck, and marked on the catch with the letters +‘A. W.’ There was also a tiny ring, with the name ‘Arley’ traced in wee +letters on the inside; and, while looking over the waterproof cloak, +which had been wrapped around my bundle, she had found a pocket, on +the inside of which a piece of cloth had been sewed, bearing the name, +‘Evelyn Wentworth.’” + +“My mother’s name!” exclaimed Arley, with white lips and dilating eyes. + +Her companion did not reply to her interruption, except by a look of +sorrowful compassion, and then resumed: + +“The Sister folded everything with great care, and told me never to +part with one of them. ‘You will find your friends some day, if you +keep them,’ she said; and also remarked that she believed, from my +appearance and the name upon the waterproof, that I was of English +parentage. Greatly encouraged by her sympathy and interest, I redoubled +my efforts to learn, and gave my attention almost exclusively to +English branches. + +“When I was fifteen, the matron of the school had an application from +an English lady who was traveling, for a nurse. I need not tell you +that I pleaded most eagerly for the place when the matron made the +application known, and after an interview with the lady herself, I was +at once installed as nurse over three unruly, but very pretty children. +The family remained abroad a year, and then we all came to England. +Mrs. Alden’s home is in Bristol, and there I have been with her during +the last three years. She has been very kind to me, treating me more +like a friend than a servant. + +“Soon after our return, Mr. Alden began to institute inquiries +regarding my parentage, but without success, until a month ago, or +a little more, we came to London. A week after our arrival here, we +read in one of the papers a notice of the approaching marriage of Miss +Arley Wentworth with Mr. Philip Paxton. The name--your name--thrilled +me at once, for I felt that at last we had found a clew. We thought +the rest would be comparatively easy, but we found great difficulty +in ascertaining your place of residence. Day after day Mr. Alden made +inquiries, but it was only yesterday that he succeeded in finding +Mr. Paxton’s office. He was out when Mr. Alden called, and he was +somewhat dismayed to learn that he was to be married to-day, and go +abroad immediately for several months. He then asked the clerk if he +could give him the name of the guardian of the young lady whom he was +to marry, and he immediately directed him to Mr. Holley, your lawyer. +He hastened at once to his office, and laid the facts, which I have +related to you, before him. He examined the articles of which I have +spoken, and questioned Mr. Alden very closely, and then, not satisfied, +he came to see me, and obliged me to repeat my story. He was very +loath to admit my claim, for he is very fond of you; but at last he +was obliged to confess that I am entitled to the name of--of--Arley +Wentworth. He was, however, so disturbed that he refused to come and +acquaint you with the facts, although we all felt that it belonged to +him to do so; Mr. Alden recoiled from the task, and at last I said +that I would come and tell you my story, and that is how I happened to +intrude upon you at this unfortunate hour. + +“I know, Mrs. Paxton,” the girl concluded, rising her pleading eyes, +which were full of tears, to Arley’s white face, “how hard this must be +for you--and upon this day of all others I regret that you should have +to learn it. I feel as if you must almost hate me for coming here in +this way to steal your name from you, and to throw upon your shoulders +the burden of mystery and doubt which for so many years I myself have +borne. But it was necessary--I must establish my birthright, and learn +something of the parents for whom my heart had been hungering all my +life. + +“Don’t look at me so, please,” she continued, as she looked up and met +Arley’s burning, staring eyes. “I would gladly have spared you if I +could; forgive me--pray forgive me--for the pain I am causing you.” + +Arley put out her hand to stop her. + +“Have you that package of clothing with you?” she asked, in a hollow +tone. + +“Yes, I brought it, but I left it outside the door; I did not like to +bring it in until I had told you my story. I will get it for you.” + +She arose and went to the door, and Arley, in spite of the conflicting +emotions which were raging in her heart, could not help noticing how +perfectly ladylike and graceful she was in every movement, and she +found herself wondering how it could be possible for any one to become +so refined and cultivated in the face of the difficulties which had +beset her hard life from the very beginning. + +She brought the package and laid it in Arley’s lap. + +With icy, trembling fingers, she unfolded the waterproof, and there +within it, wrapped in a fine towel, was a little flannel skirt, +finished on the bottom with rich embroidery. The little dress, too, was +of finest texture and most dainty make. The socks and shoes were soiled +and defaced by the sea water, but were evidently the best that could be +obtained. + +There was a little box in the package; opening it, Arley found the +chain and ring of which the stranger had told her; and she found, too, +the name “Arley” on one, the initials “A. W.” on the other. + +Turning the pocket of the waterproof inside out, she saw the name +“Evelyn Wentworth” written upon a piece of cloth which was sewed to the +garment. + +As she saw this, she arose, without a word, but with a perfectly +colorless face, and rang the bell for her maid. + +The summons was answered almost immediately, for inquiries were +beginning to be made for the absent bride, and the girl was loitering +in the corridor without. + +“Send Aunt Angelina here,” Arley said, authoritatively. + +Very soon the door unclosed again to admit an elderly lady, who, +after one startled glance at Arley, turned and regarded the stranger +inquisitively. + +With swift, eager steps, Arley glided to her side, and holding the +little ring and chain (which she had retained in her hand) up before +her, asked, in a low, breathless tone: + +“Auntie, did you ever see these before?” + +The old lady uttered a startled cry as she beheld them; then she +grasped them in her trembling hands and examined them closely. + +“Child,” she said, excitedly, “this ring I bought and had marked +myself, and the chain your grandfather purchased at the same time. We +sent them to Evelyn for you, when she wrote us that she had a little +daughter and was going to call her Arley. Where on earth did you get +them? I supposed they were at the bottom of the sea.” + +Arley sank, weakly, into a chair at these words. She could not utter +one word in reply, for it seemed as if her tongue was paralyzed and as +if all her senses were slipping from her. + +Her young visitor sprang forward and fell upon her knees by her side, +and began to chafe her hands. + +“Forgive me--forgive me,” she pleaded, while glittering tears rolled +over her own pale face; “I would have spared you if I could.” + +This called Miss McAllister’s attention again to her. + +“Child, who are you, and what have you done that needs to be forgiven?” + +She bent to scrutinize her more closely, and all at once started back +with a low, frightened cry, her face growing gray and haggard. + +“Who are you, I say?” she whispered, hoarsely. “Are you a spirit that +you come here with the face and eyes of Evelyn, my lost niece? I could +almost swear that she had come back to me as fresh and fair as she was +when she left us almost twenty years ago. Child--child, what is your +name?” + +At these wild, startling words, poor Arley bowed her face upon her +hands with a low, despairing cry, and knew now why the face of the +young girl had seemed so strangely familiar to her when she had entered +the room. + +It was a counterpart of a picture which was even then hanging in the +library below--the picture of the lovely woman whom, until this hour, +she had always believed to be her mother. + +She knew, too, that the young stranger’s story was true--the +identification of the ring and chain, together with Miss McAllister’s +last words, had proved it beyond the shadow of a doubt. + +The new Arley looked from the wretched bride to the perplexed and +startled spinster in a helpless, appealing way. + +It made her miserable to cause all this pain and confusion, and she did +not know what to say in answer to Miss McAllister’s question. + +But Arley came to her aid, and we are yet to learn that the strength +and courage of heroes were in our fair young friend. + +She sat suddenly erect, dropped her limp hands from her face, and, +confronting Miss McAllister, said: + +“Aunt Angeline, she is Evelyn Wentworth’s child. Her name is Arley +Wentworth; she is your grandniece, and not I; I am an impostor, who +all my life have been subsisting upon the bounty of strangers, while +she has gone unloved and uncared for all her days. Tell her!” she +concluded, turning to the girl at her side. + +And, rising from her humble position, she repeated her story, in a few +simple words, to the amazed woman who was her mother’s aunt. She showed +her also the little clothes, and the waterproof, with the name written +in Evelyn Wentworth’s own hand, and Miss McAllister was convinced of +the truth of her statements. + +“I never heard anything like it,” she said, in a bewildered way. “I +feel as if I had been bewitched. But, my dear, you surely have Evelyn’s +face; your voice makes me almost believe that she has come back and is +speaking to me; and my heart is drawn toward you with great tenderness. +But, my darling,” turning and fondly laying her trembling hand on +Arley’s head, “how can I bear to think of any one else in the place you +have occupied for so many years? I cannot give you up, my love, even +though I were told a hundred times that you are not Evelyn’s child.” + +The young stranger sprang forward and seized the woman’s hand, crying, +as she pressed it to her lips: + +“Oh, I don’t want you to give her up--I never thought of such a thing; +I do not wish anybody to give up anything. I only wanted to be sure +who I was--that I really belonged to somebody and need no longer live +with such a mystery hanging over me. I thank you for saying such kind +words regarding my resemblance to my mother, and that you feel tenderly +toward me; I shall always love you for it. I am so sorry to have made +you so unhappy,” she went on, turning to Arley with touching humility; +“but I will go away now and never trouble you again. I hope, when you +get a little accustomed to thinking of this, it will not seem quite so +hard to you; you have a kind husband, and, perhaps, in his love and +care, you will forget by and by, how I have troubled you to-day. My +only object in coming to you was to establish my identity, and I did +not dare to let you go away, lest something should happen to you before +I could tell you. I thank you very much for receiving me so kindly, and +bearing with me so patiently. When you get back, since you have a new +name, perhaps you will not object to my taking, in a very quiet way, +the one that belongs to me. But I will not annoy you any further now. I +pray that you may have a prosperous journey and be very happy.” + +She bent down and just touched Arley’s fragrant hair with her lips, and +then turned away as if to leave the room. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + +IT SEEMS INCREDIBLE. + + +Both Arley and Miss McAllister regarded the retreating girl with +amazement so profound that, for the moment, they were rendered +speechless. + +Could it be possible that the girl had only come to them, as she +said, to establish her identity, and was now willing to return to the +toil and obscurity of the life which she had been leading? Had she no +thoughts of her rights or heritage? of the position she might occupy as +the granddaughter of Dr. McAllister and the heiress to his property? + +“Stop!” Arley cried, as soon as she could collect her scattered wits, +and just as the young girl was going to pass out of the room. + +Ina turned, with a half-frightened look, at the authoritative command. + +“Where are you going?” Arley asked. + +“Back to Mrs. Alden. They have been very kind to me, and I have been +happier with them than I ever was in my life before; and they will be +glad to keep me with them as long as I like to stay,” Ina answered. + +“But--but--it seems incredible! Was your only object in coming here +just to establish your identity? Had you nothing else in view?” And +Arley studied the fair face earnestly as she put these questions. + +“No, that was all; I could not rest until I was satisfied as to who I +was. I wanted to be sure that there had been an Evelyn Wentworth--to +hear her friends acknowledge her and confess that I must be her child. +At first,” she continued, her sweet lips trembling, “or until I saw +Mr. Holley, I had a faint hope that one or both of my parents might +be living and would gladly claim their long-lost child. Oh! how happy +I should have been to have found them, and to have been sheltered by +their care and love, but since that cannot be I am content with the +knowledge that I have gained from you to-day. Perhaps----” + +She hesitated and cast a wistful look at Miss McAllister, which touched +her deeply. + +“Perhaps what?” Arley questioned, still regarding her closely. + +“Perhaps,” and her eyes were still fixed appealingly on the old lady’s +face; “you might be willing, since you believe me to be the child of +your niece, that I should come to see you once in a while to learn +something about my father and mother. Oh! you can never know how meagre +my life has been, and how I have yearned for love like theirs,” and a +little sob choked her utterance. + +Without giving her aunt time to reply to this appeal, Arley got up from +her chair and crossed the room to where the girl stood, with her hand +still resting upon the knob of the door. + +She laid her two hands upon her shoulders and looked searchingly down +into her clear, earnest eyes. + +“Did you not expect to come here to live? This would have been your +home--all these luxuries yours, you know, if you had been brought +here, instead of me. Did you have no thought of the fortune which my +grandfather--your grandfather--left to his grandchild? Tell me,” she +added, almost fiercely, “you who have the face, and eyes, and voice of +the woman whom I have always revered as my mother, did you not come +here to wrest all these things from me, together with my name and +birthright?” + +The gentle girl shrank just a little from her questioner, with her +intense gaze and tones, but she answered with exceeding sweetness, yet +with a sort of impressive dignity: + +“No; believe me, I did not; all that I wished for was the right to +bear my father’s name--to be acknowledged as his child. I wish to take +nothing from you of all the comforts that you have been led to believe +your own. I have made you unhappy enough by proving my claim to the +name which you have always borne, and I will not make an enemy of you. +Now I have told you why I came; let me go, and I will never annoy you +again.” + +“But, child, I never heard of such a thing. All these things are +yours--this beautiful home--alas! I believe I never realized until +this moment how very beautiful and dear it is!” Arley said, in +trembling tones, looking around upon all the luxuries which lay about +her, “and the fortune which Dr. McAllister left--a fortune of twenty +thousand pounds. It is yours by right of heritage.” + +“I know; Mr. Alden said something of this to me,” Ina returned, with +a troubled, uneasy glance at her companion, “but I could not think +of taking them away from you, who, all your life, have regarded them +as belonging to you. Dr. McAllister always looked upon you as his +grandchild; you grew up under his love and care; to you, the child of +his affection, he gave this lovely home and his fortune, and not to me, +of whose existence he was wholly ignorant.” + +“But the law will give it all to you. It will decree that it all +belongs to you, the real heiress,” Arley persisted. + +“The law need have nothing to do about it,” Ina answered, quickly. +“And, oh! I do not wish to deprive you of one single thing. I should +feel mean, degraded to take from you what has become a necessity to you +from the force of habit and expectation. You have been very tenderly +reared, and led to believe that all your future would be like the past, +since ample provision was made for you in Dr. McAllister’s will. It +would be cruel for me to wrest it from you and consign you to such +poverty as I have known. You could never work for your living, while I +have been brought up to take care of, and depend upon myself.” + +“You are the strangest, most unselfish girl that I ever met in my +life!” Arley exclaimed, regarding her wonderingly, with a sort of +reverence; and then, actuated by an impulse which she could not resist, +she bent forward and kissed the fair, upturned forehead. + +Ina caught her breath quickly at the act. + +“I thought you would almost hate me,” she said, with a little sob; +“and, oh! you never can know how I dreaded to come to you.” + +“Hate you! It would be impossible to hate such a sweet spirit as you +have shown yourself to be,” Arley answered, earnestly. “But you must +not be allowed to wrong yourself; right is right. You are the child +of this house. I am simply a usurper--an unintentional one, ’tis +true, yet a usurper none the less. Good Heaven!” she cried, wildly, +as if suddenly overpowered by the thought; “if you are the real Arley +Wentworth, who and what am I? Where, in all this wide world, are my +kindred, and how am I ever to find them? + +“But wait,” she added, more calmly. “I must not think of that now; +justice must be done first.” + +She moved with a quick, firm step across the room and rang her bell +again. + +“Mary, send Mr. Paxton here immediately,” she commanded of the girl +when she came. + +“Yes’m; he were inquiring about you a minute ago,” she answered, gazing +curiously from one agitated face to another, and then disappearing to +do her mistress’ bidding. + +Then, for a moment, Arley’s forced composure gave way. + +“Oh, auntie, auntie!” she sobbed; “can it be possible that I do not +belong to you at all?--that all your care and affection for so many +years have been given to an impostor?” + +“Hush, hush, my darling!” the old lady said, brokenly, while she fondly +smoothed the bright head upon her shoulder with her trembling hand. “Do +not call yourself such hard, such unnecessary names. Whoever you may +prove to be, you will still be my dear child just the same. It cannot +alter the fact that I have always loved you and shall love you just as +long as I live.” + +“But I must give up everything to her. I must go away and surrender all +that has been so dear to me,” said stricken Arley. + +With a sudden rain of tears, she turned to Miss McAllister and threw +herself into her arms. + +“You must, and will, of course, do what is right,” Miss McAllister +returned, gravely; “but it does not follow that our affection for each +other will ever be any the less. You were going away from me anyway. +Your husband has claimed you; and so, perhaps, God has sent me this +other child, so that I need not be quite so lonely in my old age +without you.” + +“What a comforter you are, auntie, and how selfish of me not to have +thought of you in this connection. She will be a comfort to you, I +know,” the young wife said, looking up, and trying to smile through her +tears; and just then Philip Paxton entered the room. + +“What does this mean?” he asked, stopping short as he observed his +wife’s tear-stained face, and regarding the young stranger with +questioning surprise. + +“I have some strange news for you, Philip,” Arley said, going to him +and laying her hand upon his shoulder. + +“It must be both strange and sad to make you weep like this on your +wedding day,” he replied, tenderly, as he encircled her slight waist +with his arm and regarded her anxiously. “What is it, dear?” + +She told him in as few words as possible all the strange story, and her +heart sank within her as she noted how the tender, anxious light died +out of his eyes as he listened; how his face grew pale and stern, and +a dogged, resolute expression settled about his lips. Instinctively she +knew that he did not mean to acknowledge this stranger’s claim, that +he meant to contend for the name, position and fortune which rightly +belonged to her by the ties of consanguinity. + +But she omitted no point of proof. She explained everything, showing +him the pretty little garments, together with the chain and ring which +Miss McAllister had recognized as the very ones which she and her +brother had sent to Evelyn’s child in far-away India. + +“You see, Philip,” she said, sadly, in conclusion, “that you have not +married Arley Wentworth after all, but some poor, nameless waif who was +cast up by the sea and brought here by mistake, to occupy the position +and appropriate all the love and care which belonged to another. All my +life I have been usurping this poor girl’s place and privileges, while +she has endured only hardships and poverty.” + +Had Philip Paxton been a man, loyal and true, he would at once have +taken his wife in his arms, and told her that though he might not have +married the “real Arley Wentworth,” yet having won the woman whom alone +he loved, he would be content, and the stranger might have all else, +and welcome. + +But he appeared to pay no heed to the appeal contained in her words. + +He turned, almost fiercely, upon Ina, and said, with scornfully curling +lips, and in tones that were cold and stern: + +“Surely you can expect no one to believe a trumped-up story like +this--a mere fabrication, cunningly woven, I am bound to confess--which +will not bear investigation, and must--let me assure you--fail of its +object.” + +“But, Philip,” Arley interposed, and shrinking to hear him speak so +severely, “here are the very clothes that she wore when she was found, +and this little chain and ring, which Aunt Angeline recognized at once.” + +“Yes,” said Miss McAllister, “I bought that ring and had it marked, and +I must confess I was a trifle hurt when Arley was brought to us and +it was not upon her hand, while she wore, instead, a fine and costly +emerald. It was, of course, a more expensive ornament, but whoever +presented it could not have done so with more love than I experienced +when I sent my simple offering to Evelyn’s child. I tried to think, +however, that her finger might have outgrown my ring; but I see now +that I was wrong, and its absence is fully explained.” + +Philip scowled at the inoffensive little trinkets and the garments +which his wife and Miss McAllister asserted, proved so much. + +“They prove nothing,” he insisted; “they may have been washed ashore +after the wreck, and picked up by some fisherman, who now sends his +child forth with this story in order to secure your fortune and +position.” + +“But she was dressed in these things when she was found,” persisted +Arley, while she flushed a deep crimson at his rude implication of +falsehood and intrigue on the part of the stranger. + +“How do you know that?” he demanded. “You have nothing but her word +to prove it; it does not follow that it was really the fact, simply +because she says so. Then just think, Arley, it is not at all likely +that a sailor, who had been on the same vessel with you when he came +from India, could have mistaken you for some other child; if he had not +known who you were, he would never have sent you to Dr. McAllister.” + +“I think the sailor might very easily have mistaken me in all the +confusion and terror of that wreck, particularly if, as it now seems, +there was another child about my own age on the same vessel,” Arley +replied, gravely: + +“Nonsense; it is all mere fiction--a plot to secure your money,” he +retorted, irritably. + +Ina, who had not yet spoken since his entrance, now advanced and stood +before him. Her eyes glowed and her cheeks burned hotly at his words, +while her graceful form was drawn proudly erect. + +“I beg your pardon,” she said, with something of hauteur, “but the +gentleman is mistaken; I have spoken only truth--everything is exactly +as I have stated.” + +“But, my dear young lady, that is merely an assertion, without anything +to corroborate it, and you would find it very difficult to prove it +before a jury,” Philip said, more politely than he had yet spoken, for +her manner impressed him in spite of his skepticism. + +“I shall never try to prove it before a jury,” she returned, with +dignity. “I am satisfied in my own mind that I am the child of Captain +and Mrs. Wentworth, and that is sufficient.” + +“Then you do not intend to take any legal steps to secure your +so-called rights?” Philip said, eagerly. + +“No, sir,” she returned, but there was a little quiver of scorn in her +voice which nettled him, and made him wonder, as Arley had done, how it +was possible for any one brought up as she had been, to acquire so much +refinement and self-possession; “no, sir; as I have already told Mrs. +Paxton, I came here with no intention of depriving her of anything; +I simply wish to assume my own name, and since she has to-day taken +yours, that cannot possibly harm her in any way.” + +He looked intensely relieved at this assurance, and remarked to his +wife: + +“Then you are all right, Arley, there will be no trouble.” + +“I do not understand you,” she returned, with a troubled look. + +“Why, if she takes no legal steps against you, you can still retain +your fortune, and it would be a great pity, after having been led to +expect it all your life, for you to be deprived of it in this way.” + +She turned upon him with blazing eyes. + +“Philip!” she cried, in indignant astonishment. + +“Well?” + +“I did not expect anything like this from you,” she said. “Would it be +just--would it be honorable, to keep it?” + +“Why not? Dr. McAllister left you twenty thousand pounds, and of course +he expected that you would keep it and use it for your own benefit.” + +“He left it to ‘Arley Wentworth, his beloved grandchild.’ I am not +‘Arley Wentworth;’ I am not his ‘grandchild,’ as has been proven to my +satisfaction to-day, and, therefore, I have no right to a single pound +of his money. Just think,” she went on, excitedly, “of all that I have +spent since I came into possession of this wealth. I have appropriated +all the income, year after year, spending it for my own selfish +gratification, while she,” with a swift motion of her hand toward Ina, +“the real Arley, and rightful heiress, has been in poverty and want! +Think of all that I have flittered away upon this wedding finery to +make myself attractive in your eyes! I feel condemned, guilty, like +a thief! Look at her there, in her cheap, simple garments, and then +at me, in my rich traveling attire, while all my life I have been +sheltered by the tender care and love which should have been hers. It +makes me almost hate myself to think that I have deprived her of all +this, and yet I would not, willfully, have wronged her of a single +shilling had I known of this before. No, Philip, if you would retain +my respect, you must not so much as suggest to me that I keep this +fortune; she must have it all, to the last farthing,” she concluded, +with a positiveness which left him in no doubt as to her purpose. + +He frowned darkly, and muttered something under his breath. + +“What did you say?” she asked, while she searched his face anxiously. + +“Nothing--never mind now,” he said, hastily, then added, more calmly: +“You are too impulsive, Arley; it is not right that you should +impoverish yourself so recklessly. If you are convinced, I am not, and +I, with my better judgment regarding worldly affairs, am not going to +allow you to do yourself this wrong--at least without incontestable +proof that this young woman is what she claims to be. But,” looking at +his watch somewhat nervously, “it is almost time for us to leave, and +our friends below will wonder what is detaining you so long. I presume +you can be excused,” he added, sarcastically, and flashing a look at +the stranger, “and this matter can be looked into further upon our +return.” + +But Arley sank down upon a chair and covered her face with her hands. + +“Oh, I cannot meet any one now,” she said, in a voice of distress. “I +cannot go away, Philip, until this matter is settled. Go down and tell +our friends that I am ill--for, indeed, I feel wretchedly--tell them +that our journey must be postponed for to-day, and ask them to excuse +me.” + +“Nonsense, Arley! this will never do at all,” Philip returned, +impatiently; “you must come. Our tickets are purchased and everything +arranged for the trip.” + +But she shook her head resolutely and repeated: + +“I cannot go until this question is proved and settled.” + +“It will never be proved,” he cried, hotly; “for there is no truth in +this story. We have not the slightest real proof that this girl is what +she claims.” + +Miss McAllister had listened to him throughout with a grave face; now +she approached him, and said: + +“Wait, Mr. Paxton, for a few moments. I want to go downstairs, and +perhaps I can help you a little about this matter when I return.” + +“Very well,” he answered, gloomily, and walking to a window, looked +moodily out upon the street, while she quickly left the room. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + +THE PORTRAIT. + + +Miss McAllister was not gone many minutes. + +The door soon opened again and she entered, followed by a servant +bearing a picture. + +It was the portrait of Evelyn Wentworth. + +“Place it here upon this table,” she said, in a low tone to the man, +“and then you may go.” + +He obeyed, and then quietly left the room. + +As soon as the door closed after him, Miss McAllister turned to their +visitor and said: + +“I want you to come and stand beside this picture, dear, and let Mr. +Paxton compare your face with the one painted there.” + +She took the young girl by the hand and led her forward. + +She went tremblingly, a sort of mist coming over her eyes so that she +could not see distinctly; but as she came close to it she bent forward +and scanned it eagerly. + +There was one moment of breathless silence, then a low cry of surprise +and joy burst from her. + +“Yes--yes, it is true--I know that she was my mother,” she said, +looking tearfully up into Miss McAllister’s face, while her own glowed +with a tender happiness which made her exceedingly lovely. + +“Mr. Paxton,” said the old lady, “come here and look for yourself. I +think this test cannot fail to put to flight all your doubts.” + +She turned the girl and placed her side by side with the picture as she +spoke. + +Philip felt obliged to obey, but he came forward very reluctantly, +while Arley also bent forward to look. + +The face of the young maiden and that of the portrait were almost +identical. + +There were the same large, deep-blue eyes, the same soft, sunny-brown +hair and broad, low forehead with its straight, shapely brows. The +nose of the young girl was a trifle more delicate in outline than +that of the portrait, but the mouth was the same--sweet and tender in +expression, and with a sensitive droop at the corners that was somewhat +peculiar--while the chin of each rounded and curved into the beautiful +white throat precisely alike. + +“Do you wish--can you ask any stronger proof than that before you?” +Miss McAllister asked of Philip, a trifle sternly. “There cannot be +the slightest doubt that you are looking upon the mother and child. It +has always been a matter of regret to me that Arley did not bear more +resemblance to her parents; I have thought at times that I could trace +something of her father’s expression in her features, but it was never +satisfactory; but it is all explained now, and from this moment I must +own this child as Evelyn Wentworth’s daughter.” + +“Oh, auntie, auntie!” wailed poor Arley, stretching out her hand with a +despairing gesture to her, and feeling almost as if she had been driven +forth into exile as she listened to these words; while Philip Paxton, +convinced at last because he was obliged to be, clenched his teeth and +ground his heel into the soft carpet in impotent rage. + +Without warning or preparation, twenty thousand pounds were swept +beyond his reach, while he and his bride of but an hour or two were, +comparatively speaking, beggars. + +Miss McAllister went to Arley and drew her head upon her bosom. + +“Be still, my child,” she said, brokenly, but with exceeding +tenderness. “I do not love my darling one whit less. Surely you do not +imagine that the affection of eighteen years’ growth can be transferred +to another simply by a question of mistaken identity? No, dear, but I +must be just--I must acknowledge the evidence of my own senses. While +from this moment I must own this young girl as Evelyn’s child, you will +ever be the same to me that you have been--a daughter in all but name. +You two shall be like a pair of sisters, and I shall claim you both.” + +She held out her hand, as she ceased speaking, to Ina, who came forward +and raised it to her lips, while tears streamed over her cheeks. + +She had never expected to be received so heartily and kindly into the +bosom of a family where another had reigned so absolutely for so long. + +“Oh! but who am I? to whom do I belong? who are my kin? I am stripped +of everything--I have not even a name left,” Arley cried, despairingly. + +She had been very brave to renounce everything when convinced that it +did not belong to her, but she felt very desolate and unhappy now. She +would not have minded it so much if Philip had been noble and manly +regarding the matter; but it almost seemed as if he, too, had deserted +her in this trying hour. + +“She should not say that when she has her husband’s name,” Ina said, +sorrowfully, and looking up with tears into Miss McAllister’s face, +“and she must retain that of ‘Arley’ also; she has always been known by +it, and it would be very awkward to change it now. All my life I have +been called ‘Ina,’ and I do not believe I could answer to any other. +She”--glancing at Arley--“will be known after this as Mrs. Paxton, and +so I will assume the name of Wentworth; in nothing else need there +be any change. You are very kind to receive me so cordially as your +niece, and I shall always love you for it; if I had not made her so +unhappy”--with a sympathetic look at the weeping bride--“I should be +content.” + +Miss McAllister looked greatly relieved as she listened to this, while +she longed to take the sweet maiden into her arms and kiss her for +trying to make the rough way so smooth for them all. + +“Arley, do you hear?” she said, turning to her; “there is to be no +change; Ina wishes to retain her first name, and desires that you will +keep yours.” + +“Ah! but that does not explain who I am,” cried the poor child, who, +weary and weak from the excitement of the day, and cut to the heart by +her husband’s strange treatment, was fast losing self-control. + +“You are Philip Paxton’s wife,” Miss McAllister said, with a glance +of stern appeal at the newly-made husband, who still stood before the +portrait of Evelyn Wentworth as if in a trance. + +She felt that he ought to come and comfort the afflicted girl, and not +stand there moodily brooding over what could not be helped. + +He started at her words, as if a viper had stung him, muttered an angry +oath, and without even so much as a glance at his unhappy bride, he +abruptly turned and left the room. + +This was the one bitter drop too much in Arley’s cup of woe, and with a +moan of pain she lay back in Miss Angeline’s arms and fainted away. + +Philip Paxton stalked downstairs, looking like anything rather than a +happy bridegroom. + +His face was startlingly pale, his eyes glowed with a fierce, lurid +light, and his manner was wild and excited. + +Meeting Wil Hamilton at the foot of the stairs--for he was going up to +see what was detaining the young couple so long--he told him that Arley +had been taken suddenly ill, and would be unable either to take leave +of her friends or go on her journey at present, and he begged him to +excuse them both to the company. + +Then, without waiting to explain anything further, he dashed on into +the library to hide himself, his rage and disappointment, from every +eye. + +But here he found another lion in his path, in the form of a strange +gentleman, who was sitting quietly there, and apparently waiting for +some one. + +“I beg pardon,” Philip said, stiffly, and glaring at him almost +savagely. “I was not aware that there was any one here.” + +“My name is Alden, sir, and I am waiting for a young lady who has gone +upstairs to see Mrs. Paxton,” the man returned, rising and bowing +politely to Philip. + +Philip bit his lip fiercely at this intelligence. + +“I am Mr. Paxton,” he said, abruptly, “and I have just left my wife.” + +“Indeed! then doubtless you have learned the nature of the business +which brought Miss Corrillion and myself hither. I regret that we were +obliged to come to-day, but it could not be avoided, and, indeed, Miss +Wentworth’s--your wife’s--lawyer advised us to see her, and you also, +before you went away,” Mr. Alden explained. + +“Don’t you think your errand a strange and rather doubtful one?” Philip +asked, with curling lips. + +“A ‘strange’ one it certainly is; a doubtful one, no. I had no doubt +regarding the identity of the young lady, who, for three years past, +has been a member of my family, even before I saw the portrait which a +servant has just removed from this room. I asked whose picture it was, +and was told that it was Miss Wentworth’s mother; but I certainly never +saw a closer resemblance between mother and daughter than there is +between my _protege_ and that portrait.” + +“And if you succeed in establishing the identity of your _protege_, as +you call her, I suppose you expect to obtain for her the fortune which +Dr. McAllister left,” Philip said, with a sneer. + +The gentleman changed color slightly at this. + +“If her identity is proved, there can be no doubt that it properly +belongs to her,” Mr. Alden answered, with grave politeness. “It is Miss +Corrillion’s wish not to make any trouble, or put forth any claim for +this money; but it seems to me that full justice should be done, and +the fortune which rightly belongs to her be made over to her.” + +“She shall never have it if I can prevent it,” Philip retorted. “I am a +lawyer, and I shall do my utmost to save my wife from being wronged in +this way. Dr. McAllister left it to her, and no other. He brought her +up from a little child, believing she belonged to him. He loved her as +his own, and he meant that she alone should have this money.” + +“Yes, that is doubtless all true,” replied his companion; “but if the +revelation of to-day had been made while he was living--if he had +learned that Mrs. Paxton was not the child of his daughter, as he had +always supposed, and if it had been proved, on the other hand, that Ina +Corrillion was, your common sense, sir, as well as my own, tells you +that his will would have been very different, without regard to what +his affection might have dictated.” + +The man’s argument was very sensible and forcible, and Philip knew well +enough, if the matter was pushed, that the law would give that coveted +twenty thousand pounds to the new claimant, and the thought exasperated +him beyond endurance, and he put an end to the debate by abruptly +walking to the other end of the room. + +He was bound to acknowledge to himself, in consideration of the +proofs which the girl had presented, and her wonderful resemblance to +the portrait, that she was indeed and in truth the child of Evelyn +Wentworth. He knew that any jury before whom the facts should be +presented would so rule; but it was a most bitter pill for him to +swallow. + +What would now become of all the hopes and plans which had so depended +upon the winning of Arley’s fortune? + +He had not a hundred pounds of his own in the world, but the thought +had not given him the slightest trouble until now. He had felt +comfortably secure from all pecuniary anxiety with the snug income +which he believed his wife would bring him. He knew that they could +live in a very easy, happy manner upon it; while, with his talents and +the reputation which he had been rapidly acquiring during the last two +or three years, he believed it would not be long before he would be +independent. + +But now the loss of this money maddened him, and made him reckless of +what he said or did, particularly when he remembered how he had stooped +to win it. + +“What on earth are we to do?” he muttered gloomily to himself. “Here +I am, saddled with a wife poorer than I am--that is, if this fortune +has to go, as I fear it must--and I see nothing but pinching poverty +before us, at least for the present. I swear my pride will not stand +it; I expected to live at my ease and in style--to go about in the +same society in which Arley has always moved, and enjoy the luxuries +of life. But now nothing remains to us but to hide ourselves in cheap +lodgings, and live from hand to mouth. I vow I never will do it! I’ll +turn Bohemian and live by my wits first. I haven’t the courage to face +all London after this ignominious tumble from the pinnacle of my glory.” + +While he was thus absorbed in his bitter musings, the door opened +again, and the inoffensive object of his wrath entered. + +She went up to Mr. Alden, and said, with a smile: + +“I have kept you waiting for a long time, sir. I am sorry, but there +seemed so much to explain and talk over.” + +“And do they acknowledge your claim?” her companion asked, with a +doubtful glance at Philip. + +“Yes, sir, at least Mrs. Paxton and Miss McAllister have been very +kind; they have received me very cordially, and I am henceforth to be +known as Ina Wentworth. I am to keep my old first name, and Mrs. Paxton +is to retain hers, as we both think it would be very awkward to change.” + +“And the----” Mr. Alden began, eagerly, but she stopped him with a +gesture, and a warning look to Philip. + +“That is as far as we have been able to get as yet,” she said, with a +significant glance. “Mrs. Paxton is, of course, greatly disturbed and +excited over the revelations which I have made, and the mystery with +which they enshroud her own identity.” + +“That, of course, is to be expected; but I am very glad to know that so +few difficulties have been placed in your path,” Mr. Alden returned, +evidently well pleased with the result of her interview. + +“Miss McAllister insists,” Ina continued, “that I shall remain here +with her; she says she will be left alone when Mrs. Paxton goes +away, and she feels that this ought henceforth to be my home. I have +consented to stay for a while at least, so you will be obliged to take +my regrets to Mrs. Alden, and go home without me,” she concluded, with +a smile that was not altogether tearless, as she thought of the three +little ones whom she had learned to love so well. + +“That is as it should be, and you will probably remain here +permanently,” Mr. Alden remarked, with evident satisfaction, as he +arose to go, then added, in a tone of genuine regret: + +“We shall be loath to lose you, Miss Corril--Miss Wentworth,” he +corrected, with a smile, “but, of course, we rejoice over your good +fortune. You have been very faithful and kind to my children, who love +you dearly, and will miss you sadly.” + +“And I them,” Ina returned, in a husky voice, “while I shall always +regard you and your wife as among my best friends.” + +She held out her hand as she ceased speaking, and Mr. Alden shook it +heartily, and then took his departure. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + +THE ENGAGEMENT RING. + + +Ina Wentworth stood in deep thought for several moments after her +friend had gone, then, with a resolute air, she walked directly across +the room, and stood before Philip Paxton. + +“Mr. Paxton,” she began, in a frank, straightforward way, “I do not +wish you to regard me as an enemy who has stolen into your camp to +plunder you. I tell you honestly, I do not want your wife’s fortune, I +have never even thought of taking it from her; for,” she said, with a +charming smile, which revealed two rows of white, even teeth, “having +never known the convenience or luxury of possessing so much money, I +can still be very happy without it.” + +Philip lifted his head and looked at her in a skeptical way. + +“You are very good to say so,” he said, coldly. + +She flushed at his tone, which was almost insulting. + +“It is evident that you do not intend to be friendly with me,” she +said, with dignity, “but I do not know as that need to interfere with +my plans and intentions; if, however, you will use your influence with +your wife, and persuade her that I do not want this money, and make her +keep it, I shall be very glad. I think from what Miss McAllister has +said, that she desires me to make my home with her, as Mrs. Paxton is +going away, and if I can get a few pupils I have no doubt that I can +earn sufficient for my other needs.” + +“Indeed! Perhaps you are fishing for the old lady’s fortune also,” +Philip said, rudely. + +Ina lifted a pair of surprised eyes to his gloomy face. + +“I did not even know that she had a fortune,” she remarked, simply, but +the crimson blood swept hotly up to her brow as she spoke. + +She was very indignant at him for his impudence, but she was not +lacking in spirit for all her gentleness. She drew herself up proudly, +and said, looking straight into his eyes: + +“I perceive that it is useless for me to attempt to conciliate you upon +any point; but what I have said to you I have said in perfect good +faith, and you can accept it and act upon it, or you can reject it, if +you choose.” + +With a graceful little bow, she turned and left him without another +word, while he gazed wonderingly after her, and muttered: + +“Who would ever believe that she was reared in a fisherman’s hut? +She speaks and acts like a lady of culture and refinement, and she +must have improved her later opportunities wonderfully well to appear +so polished. However, I suppose it is one of those instances where +‘blood will tell.’ But--hang it!--if she really is Captain Wentworth’s +daughter, who on earth is Arley? and why couldn’t this _denouement_ +have happened yesterday--last week--any time rather than to-day? I’m in +a devil of a pickle, or shall be, if I cannot manage some way to keep +this fortune. These disappointments and reverses, one after another, +are making a veritable demon of me. I feel as if I should do something +desperate if I am pushed much closer to the wall.” + +He arose, and paced the room excitedly, muttering irritably to himself, +while his face was deeply flushed and overcast. + +Poor Arley, upstairs, meantime had come to herself, and was trying to +look her fate as calmly and sensibly in the face as possible. + +Her proud spirit utterly rebelled against appropriating, for even +another day, that which rightfully belonged to another, and she told +Miss McAllister that everything must be made over to Ina at once. + +“I honor you, dear, for your readiness to deal justly,” the old lady +said, with a glow of pride in the girl’s rectitude. “It is but right, +of course, according to the law of heritage, that she should come +into possession of her grandfather’s fortune, and I know that the +consciousness of having performed a noble deed will more than repay you +for the loss of it.” + +If she could have known of all that Arley was to suffer in consequence +of it, she might not have spoken quite so confidently upon this point. + +“Doubtless it will be a little uncomfortable at first,” she added, +“not to receive your accustomed income, and it will probably be a +disappointment to your husband to have you deprived of any of the +independence which you have hitherto enjoyed, but, believe me, you will +be no loser in the end.” + +She did not tell her then of her own secret determination to bequeath +to her the whole of her fortune, which would amount to nearly as much +as her brother’s if she proved true to herself and the right, and +cheerfully relinquished to Ina her inheritance. + +Wil Hamilton, with great tact, made both Philip’s and Arley’s excuses, +and the wedding guests politely retired, with many expressions of +regret for the bride’s sudden illness. + +Lady Elaine went up to see her before she left, and was told something +of what had occurred, and was both shocked and grieved for her friend. + +She wound her arms about her, and tried to whisper some words of +comfort; but Arley could not bear them, even from her, just then. + +“I am so confused and nervous, dear Elaine, that I cannot talk about +it now; I will write you the whole story when I am more calm. I have +not, however,” she added, with a wan smile, “forgotten what you said to +me when we were at Hazelmore, and shall try to ‘make the best of it,’ +although there does not seem to be any best about it to me just now.” + +“He knows all about it, dear, and He will lead you in just the best +way. Cast all your care upon Him, for He careth for you,” Lady Elaine +answered, tenderly, and then left her, with a heart full of misgivings +as to how Philip would bear this blow to his hopes. + +She felt that he ought to have been by Arley’s side, for he could +comfort her as no one else could; but he was nowhere to be seen, and +his absence did not look well for her happiness. + + * * * * * + +“Philip, it is of no use for you to talk to me in any such way; my +mind is made up to do what is right, and nothing will turn me from my +purpose.” + +Thus Arley Paxton spoke, after an hour’s fruitless argument with her +husband, on the contested point of that twenty thousand pounds. + +As soon as she had felt equal to the ordeal, she had dismissed every +one from her room, and sent for her husband to come to her. + +“But I think I should have a voice in this matter. I am your husband, +and I have rights now which should be considered,” he said, moodily. + +“That is true; I have promised to ‘love, honor, and obey you,’ and +I shall gladly do so in everything possible. But I cannot sacrifice +principle, even to you.” + +“Sacrifice fiddlesticks!” he retorted, impatiently. “Dr. McAllister +gave this money to you--he meant you to have it, and no one else, and I +am bound that you shall keep it.” + +“We have gone over all that ground before,” Arley said, wearily; “but, +Philip, reverse the position. Suppose that I had been the girl, and +at the same time your wife, and the knowledge had come to us that a +mistake had been made in our identity, and that I ought to be in her +place and she in mine, would you have contended then that she ought +to keep the fortune which Dr. McAllister left to his granddaughter, +or would you have said that blood should inherit, and that it rightly +belonged to me?” + +Philip Paxton flushed hotly at this question, and felt very +uncomfortable, with those clear eyes of his wife fixed so searchingly +upon him. + +“That alters the case, of course; still----” he stopped, and looked +ashamed for having admitted so much. + +“No, it does not alter the case at all,” Arley said, in a clear, firm +tone. Then going up to him, and laying her hand upon his arm, she +asked, with white, trembling lips: + +“Philip, did you marry me for this money?” + +He shook her hand off nervously. + +“What an absurd question, Arley!” he exclaimed, irritably; yet the red +blood flooded his whole face. + +“Then, if you did not--if you married me for myself, and because you +loved me as--I love you, how can you ask me to do this dishonorable +thing and expect to retain your respect and affection for me? I am +sorry that I must come to you penniless. I was glad to have this +fortune for your sake, because I know that though you are talented in +your profession, you have your own future to carve out, and I hoped +that this money would be a help to you. But I will help you with every +power that I have. I will give my whole life to assist you to rise, +and become all that you desire to be. I will try not to hamper you in +any way, and believe we shall be very happy, far happier than if we +committed a theft--for I can view the keeping of this money in no other +light--to secure a foundation to build upon.” + +Philip appeared to be absorbed in profound thought for several moments +after she had ceased speaking. + +But at last, looking up at her, he said, with an air of desperation: + +“If you persist in this quixotic idea--in this piece of mad folly, we +are nothing but a couple of beggars. I may as well tell you, first as +last, that I have lost everything that I had--lost it in a foolish +speculation, and I have not a hundred pounds in the world; so if you +give up all your claims to this girl, we shall have no home and nothing +to depend upon. Can you tamely give up all this?” he asked, looking +around upon the luxurious furnishings of her room. “Can you bear to +leave this beautiful home, where you have been accustomed to everything +that heart could wish, and go into miserable lodgings, such as I, in +my present circumstances, can afford to give you? Can you give up your +fine clothes, your jewels, your ponies and carriage, and everything +that has hitherto made life so attractive to you?” + +“Yes, I can give them all up, Philip, because I know that it is right +and just that I should. I would rather never have another dainty or +pretty thing as long as I live, than to have it in a dishonorable +way--my honor and a clear conscience are more to me than all the +luxuries of the universe,” Arley replied, firmly and earnestly. + +“Well, I shall not relinquish your claim without a struggle, I can +assure you,” Philip returned, reddening with anger; “we cannot afford +to be deprived of everything thus by a single blow.” + +“We have each other left, Philip,” Arley said, gently. + +“Yes, and poverty staring us in the face. We cannot very well eat each +other, and how we are to live is more than I can tell,” he retorted, +with bitter sarcasm. + +“How much does your profession yield you annually?” the young wife +asked, with a sigh, a look of keen pain in her eyes. + +“I have no stated income--I have just what I work for,” he said. + +“But about what has it averaged during the last two or three years?” +she persisted. + +“Perhaps three hundred pounds. But I have made a good deal by +speculating outside, and if I had been successful in this last +venture, I should have been a rich man, comparatively, to-day.” + +Three hundred pounds a year! It seemed very little to the inexperienced +girl. She had spent more than twice that amount on her trousseau, and +she had never in all her life known what it meant to be economical. +Miss McAllister’s income was as large as her own, while her wants were +comparatively few, and she had always been ready to fill the purse +of her pretty niece, if it chanced to get empty before her quarterly +allowance was due, and there she had never had a wish ungratified. + +But, notwithstanding, the thought of poverty and self-denial did not +daunt her, for she was a brave and honorable little woman at heart, as +we shall see. + +“It seems very little,” she said, thoughtfully, “but I suppose there +are people who live upon much less than even that, and are quite happy, +Philip,” with a little tremulous smile, that was exceedingly pitiful. +“If you will not mind being burdened with a penniless wife, I shall be +content. I shall not need anything new in the way of clothing for a +long time. We can take a couple of comfortable, yet inexpensive rooms +somewhere, and have our meals brought to us, and I am sure we shall do +very well, and be very happy.” + +He turned away from her impatiently, a sneer on his lip, and muttering +something that she could not hear. + +She looked to him sadly, an expression of bitter pain in her dark eyes. +She was a bride of only a few hours, and this experience was different +from the happiness and enjoyment which she had anticipated. + +There was a fearful sinking at her heart, too, at this strange +treatment from her husband, when he should have been tender and +sympathetic regarding her trouble, when he should have soothed her with +kind and loving words, he was harsh and unkind, appearing to think more +of his own disappointment over the loss of her fortune than of the +great trial in which she was suddenly involved regarding the mystery +enshrouding her identity. + +Suddenly she approached him, growing first red, then pale. + +“Philip, when was it that you lost in this speculation of which +you were telling me?” she asked, eagerly, and then waited almost +breathlessly for his reply. + +The question took him unawares, and he did not stop to consider his +answer. + +“I received news of it on the eighteenth of July,” he said. + +Arley started and caught her breath, but before she spoke she drew off +her engagement ring, and looked at the marking upon the inside of it. + +It was dated the twenty-sixth of July, only a little more than a week +after he had known of his loss. + +This discovery made Arley heart-sick, and almost faint. He had not +begun to pay her marked attention until after that, and she could +not help thinking, from the fact of his having suddenly transferred +his devotion from Lady Elaine to her, after the announcement of her +ladyship’s engagement, that he had done so with the deliberate purpose +of getting possession of her fortune, rather than from any deep feeling +of love that he bore her. + +But at all events, whether he loved her or not, it was not the part of +an honorable gentleman to make proposals of marriage to any lady when +he was involved in such serious embarrassments. + +“Philip!” she cried, sharply, and holding out the ring to him, “you +lost your money the eighteenth and you asked me to marry you the +twenty-sixth!” + +“The devil!” he muttered, with a great start, as he suddenly realized +the awkward position in which he had placed himself. + +“Well, I can’t help it,” he admitted, with averted eyes; “yes, I did.” + +“Oh, Philip! then it was my money, after all--it was not me that you +wanted; you did not really love me,” Arley said, in a despairing voice. + +“Are you not assuming considerable?” he asked. + +“Will you answer me one question, and answer it honestly?” she +questioned, her eyes burning like coals of fire, and two very bright +spots concentrated on her cheeks. + +“I will endeavor to do so,” he replied, sarcastically. + +“Well, then, if I had been a poor girl at that time, would you have +asked me to become your wife?” + +“Nonsense, Arley! why will you torture yourself and me with such +useless questions?” + +“Answer me; you said that you would; if I had then stood in the +doubtful position in which I find myself to-day, would you have asked +me to marry you? I will know.” + +“No, I suppose I should not, if you are determined to be answered,” he +said, recklessly; “I should not have felt justified in so doing, since +I was not in circumstances to support a wife.” + +Poor Arley sank down upon the floor in a heap, a cry of mortal pain +escaping her. + + + + +CHAPTER XV. + +A TEARFUL FAREWELL. + + +Not a word passed between that wretched husband and wife for nearly +fifteen minutes, then Arley wearily arose from her prostrate position +and turned to leave the room. + +Philip looked askance at her; his face was still clouded with +mortification, disappointment, and anger, yet there was something like +a gleam of pity in his eye for her. + +“Arley,” he said, when she had nearly reached the door, and with a +shamefacedness which was anything but comfortable, “where are you +going?--what do you intend to do?” + +She turned with a long-drawn sigh. + +“I am going to my room; and I intend to do--the best I can.” + +It was such a pathetic, heart-broken reply, and it cut him keenly. + +“I do not understand you--what do you mean by that? Do you still mean +to be obstinate about this money?” + +“I am not ‘obstinate,’ Philip; but I shall do what I believe to be +right. I shall relinquish everything to Ina Wentworth.” + +That last name came hard to her, and with a sob, for she realized as +she spoke how entirely another would henceforth occupy the place which +hitherto had belonged to her alone. + +“You are determined to do it, then?” he said, moodily. + +“Yes, I must.” + +“Will you give me up also, Arley?” Philip asked, in a cruel tone. + +She grew so white at this that he was frightened, and regretted having +asked the question. + +Very slowly she went toward him, and, looking up into his face, she +said, in a hushed, pained tone: + +“When I spoke those words which made me your wife a few hours ago +they were like solemn oaths taken in the presence of God. I promised +to love and honor you--to cleave unto you until death should separate +us. Do you think after such vows that I could easily give you up? My +heart is nearly broken by what you have told me to-day--to be told, +after giving you all that I had to give, without any reservation--my +love, my confidence, myself--that instead of loving me in return, you +have only been seeking my miserable money! nay”--as he opened his lips +as if about to speak--“you need not try to palliate your act, for I +know now that that was your principal object: I was simply a necessary +incumbrance. It was a cruel--it was an ignoble thing, Philip Paxton, +for you to do, and I wonder that you should dare to profane your lips +with those solemn words which you uttered to-day. How could you do it, +Philip--how could you deceive me so?” + +She wrung her hands in her misery, and her face was almost convulsed +with pain. + +“But,” she went on without waiting for him to reply even if he had +desired to do so, “can it be possible that you would be willing, as you +intimated a moment ago, to have the tie which unites us, dissolved? Do +you wish to be rid of me, now that you have discovered that I shall +bring you no money?” + +“I--Arley--I wish you would not ask such absurd questions,” Philip +replied, uneasily; but he did not offer her one word of comfort or +love; he did not, as almost any other man would have done, take her +tenderly into his arms, and tell her that she was more to him than a +hundred fortunes, that he would work for her with all his might, and, +cheered by her great love, he would surmount every obstacle and win +wealth for her in the end. + +“How can I help asking you, after all that you have acknowledged to +me?” she cried, with a little burst of scorn; then added, with sudden +dignity: “But no, I will say no more about that; I am your wife, and +it belongs to you to take care of me to the best of your ability. You +won me, and I gave myself to you in good faith, and now I will not be +disgraced in the eyes of the world. I suppose I could do what others +have done--refuse to receive so much as a crust from your hand, and +go out into the world and battle for myself. But I will not; I will +take whatever you can give me--and I can be content with very little, +so that I am allowed to retain my self-respect. You have ruined my +life, and I feel that, after what has passed between us during this +hour, I can never be more to you than a wife in name--the tie that +binds us is but a mockery; but to all outward appearance--for the sake +of the proprieties of life and to save scandal--we must preserve the +semblance of a happy husband and wife”--her lips curled scornfully as +she said it--“who were this morning wedded in the presence of so many +witnesses. Now tell me, Philip, what your plans for the future are,” +she concluded, in a matter-of-fact tone. + +He gazed at her in astonishment. + +A few moments ago she was heart-broken and despairing; now she seemed +to have cast aside all sentiment, and become suddenly aroused to the +business and reality of life, and to the necessity of immediate action. + +“I have made none,” he briefly replied. + +“Then, will you make some now? We cannot remain here, of course, as we +are situated.” + +“Where will you go?” he asked, as if he were entirely passive in the +matter. + +Her eyes blazed. + +How weakly he was trying to shirk the responsibility of their future +upon her. + +“I will go wherever it is proper that you should take me,” she said, +with dignity; “you know best what you can afford to do.” + +“Are you willing to go into obscurity with me--to give up the society +in which you have been in the habit of mingling, and bear to have your +friends pass you by as the wife of a poor man?” + +“I have no choice in the matter,” she returned, coldly. “If”--and here +her voice grew strained and hard--“if you had loved me, I could have +gone to the ends of the earth with you, lived in a cabin and shared +any hardship, deeming it no sacrifice; now, however, I can only try +to make the best of my fate, and by striving to do my duty, winning +thus the only compensation possible--that of an easy conscience. Now, +if you will tell me what I am to do, I will go at once and prepare to +accompany you wherever you say.” + +Philip saw that she was resolute, and after thinking for a few moments, +he said: + +“As long as the tickets have been purchased, I think it will be as well +to follow out our original plan, and at least start upon our journey; +you know I have bought round-trip tickets for Paris, and we may as well +have the benefit of that much travel, and thus avoid any unpleasant +remarks which might be made if we should remain in London. Meantime we +can arrange other plans for the future. Another train will leave for +Northampton in a couple of hours,” he added, looking at his watch, “and +if you can be ready by that time we will go on that.” + +“Very well,” Arley returned, quietly, “if such is your decision, I will +be ready when the time arrives.” + +She turned away from him and disappeared within her chamber, while he, +feeling relieved that this ordeal was over, even though he had been +worsted in the conflict, descended once more to the library, as the +place where he would be least likely to be disturbed. + +Arley immediately sat down to her writing-desk, after he had gone, and +dashed off a rapid note to Mr. Holley, her lawyer, asking him to come +to her at once. + +This she dispatched by a servant to his office, bidding him use all +possible haste to deliver it. + +Then, going to one of her trunks, which was packed and ready for her +journey, she unlocked it, and took from it a massive ebony box, inlaid +with pearl and gold. + +Opening this, she laid out many little trinkets and some +costly articles of jewelry, which had belonged to her supposed +mother--trinkets which she had learned to love and value for that +reason alone, and it was not without a pang of regret that she +separated them from her own store of ornaments. But she knew that she +ought not to keep them, and that Ina would doubtless prize them as +highly as she had done, therefore she was going to give them to her. + +When Mrs. Wentworth followed her husband to India she left all such +things behind, feeling that they would be comparatively useless in the +life she expected to lead, and knowing that the care of them would be +burdensome. Thus they had been preserved and given to Arley when she +was old enough to appreciate them. + +While she was engaged in this work, Miss McAllister came in, and, +observing her occupation, tears sprang to her eyes. + +Still, she admired the heroism of the girl in thus being willing and +even eager to render full justice to Ina. + +“This is very hard for you, dear,” she said, in a trembling voice. + +“Yes, hard, but right, auntie. I suppose I may still say ‘auntie,’ even +though I have now no legal right to call you so?” she said, looking up +appealingly into the old lady’s face. + +“My child, I should feel deeply hurt if you did not continue to address +me by the old familiar name, for this change in your circumstances +cannot in the least change my affection for you--you will ever be the +same dear Arley to me.” + +“Thank you, auntie; as you have observed, I am selecting all the +jewelry which belonged to mamma--I cannot help thinking of her as +‘mamma,’ even now--to give to Ina; the other things, I suppose, I +may keep, since they were given to me personally, even though I was +believed to be somebody whom I am not?” + +“Certainly you should keep them--no one would expect you to resign +them,” Miss McAllister replied. + +“But there is something that troubles me greatly,” Arley pursued. “You +know that I spent a great deal of money upon my bridal finery--money +that I would not have touched had I dreamed of anything like this, +and now I shall never be able to wear any of it without feeling very +uncomfortable.” + +“Do not let it cause you the least anxiety, dear. I will settle every +bill when it becomes due, and make up to Ina what has already been +spent; it will give me great pleasure to do this for you, Arley, so +wear your pretty things, and take all the comfort you can in them,” +Miss McAllister said, tenderly. + +“Thank you, dear Aunt Angeline; you are very good, and, believing that +you are glad to help me out of this trouble, I cannot refuse to accept +your kindness,” Arley replied, gratefully. + +“I want to tell you,” the elder lady resumed, “that I approve of your +course to-day very heartily, and if anything could have endeared you +more to me, this would have served to do so.” + +“I am only trying to do what I know to be right,” Arley said, simply. + +“Yes; but every one is not always willing to do what he or she knows +to be right, especially when it involves such a sacrifice as you are +making. But I have come to you with a message from Ina, who is deeply +troubled over this affair. She cannot endure the thought that you +should give up everything, and she begs that you will at least share +equally with her.” + +“I cannot, auntie,” Arley said, firmly. “I have used too much of this +money already. Just think of all the years during which I have been +living upon and spending it, while she has had scarcely a comfort +during her whole life! No; I will not touch a pound of it; and if I +could do so, I would restore all that I have frittered away. It is very +sweet and kind in Ina to wish it, but it would not be right.” + +“You must not be morbidly sensitive over what is past and you could not +help,” Miss McAllister said. “You are not responsible for the mistake +of others, so I beg that you will not grieve over it any more. What +does your--what does Philip say?” she asked, with a searching glance +into the pale, sad face and heavy eyes of the young bride. + +Arley flushed, but she would not have had her know Philip’s feelings +for the world. + +“Of course, he thinks it is rather hard that I should lose everything +and be involved in such mystery all at once; but we shall no doubt do +very well without the money; you know it is said that he is a very good +lawyer. We are going to take the next train for Northampton, and go on +our journey just as we planned to do at first. I am glad,” she added, +with a pitiful attempt to smile, and to get Miss McAllister’s thoughts +as far as possible from Philip, “that you will not be left quite so +lonely as you expected to be.” + +Before Miss McAllister could reply, a maid put her head inside the +door, with the announcement that Mr. Holley had come. + +“Ask him to come right upstairs,” Arley said; and, gathering up her +trinkets, she and her aunt returned to the boudoir, where the lawyer +soon made his appearance. + +She entered at once upon the business before her, and explained why she +had sent for him--because she wished the twenty thousand pounds which +had hitherto been regarded as hers to be immediately transferred to the +rightful heir, Ina Wentworth. + +The kind-hearted lawyer expressed sorrow and sympathy for her loss, but +admitted that she was right, and commended her warmly for the prompt +action she had taken in the matter. + +He asked a few questions, made a few remarks regarding the transfer, +and then took his departure, promising to give the matter his immediate +attention. + +Then Arley made herself ready for her own departure; but it was with +a very sad heart, for she felt that she was about to leave this dear +home forever, to go out upon an untried world. She knew not what was +before her; it was like going out into the dark with no trustworthy +guide to lean upon. But not a word of this doubt and fear did she +breathe to any one. She put a brave face up to Miss McAllister to be +kissed ere she went out, for her pride kept stern guard over the secret +of her husband’s unworthiness, and the bitter disappointment which the +knowledge of it brought her. + +As Miss McAllister bade her a tearful farewell, she slipped a folded +paper into her hand. + +“It is only a little pin-money, dear,” she whispered. “Your husband, +no doubt, will keep your purse well supplied, but this is to remember +auntie by.” + +It proved to be a hundred-pound note, and seemed like a fated gift, for +it brought her much after-suffering. + +Ina Wentworth scanned the young bride’s face with sad inquiry as she +made her adieus. Somehow she felt instinctively as if the loss of this +fortune would cause unhappiness between the husband and wife, and she +would have been so glad to have saved her from all trouble. + +“I feel like a usurper,” she said, with starting tears, as Arley took +her hand in farewell. + +“You need not,” was the quick, earnest reply; “for I am very glad that +auntie is to have a companion, and”--bending nearer, and speaking +lower--“I know if I were going to remain with you, I should soon learn +to love you very dearly.” + +“Do you?” Ina exclaimed, her whole face glowing with sudden joy. “I +think it is so lovely of you to say so, and I feel a great deal happier +for it. Now, if you would----” + +“But I will not,” Arley interrupted, playfully, knowing well enough +what she was about to say, and she sealed the sweet lips with a soft +kiss, after which she followed Philip to the carriage, and was whirled +away from the home of her childhood, which she was not to enter again +for a long time. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + +THE DOOR LOCKED UPON HIM. + + +Arriving in Paris, Arley engaged three very comfortable apartments, two +sleeping-rooms and a parlor, in the Rue de Rivoli. + +Philip was almost helpless in making arrangements, for his French +was very poor; but Arley could speak it like a native, and chattered +volubly while driving her close bargain with madam, yet doing it in +such a gracious, winning way that she seemed to be conferring a favor +to take the rooms at any price. + +They remained in Paris three months, where, at first, they had not +intended remaining as many weeks. + +Arley often wondered when Philip was going to return to London and take +up his work again, but she had resolved not to interfere, and so let +matters take their course. + +He grew tired at length of Paris, and they went from there to Tours for +a month, thence to Toulouse for six weeks, after which they crossed +the Pyrenees into Spain, and finally arrived at Madrid--that quaint, +romantic old city, which seems to belong to some other world. + +Once or twice Arley had asked, with wishful eyes, when they were going +home, and he had invariably answered that “he did not know.” + +“I have no heart to go home to begin at the foot of the ladder again +and have everybody wagging their heads over my affairs,” he had once +said, moodily. + +“Where will you begin?” Arley quietly asked. + +“I don’t know as I care to begin at all,” was the frowning reply. + +“But can we live like this always?” she inquired, with a searching +glance. + +“Aren’t you comfortable? Is there anything that you want which you +haven’t got?” he demanded, more harshly than she had ever heard him +speak before. + +Arley drew herself up haughtily. + +“I believe I have made no complaint, Mr. Paxton,” she said, in a +freezing tone. “I was simply wondering where the money was coming from +to permit of our leading this idle, useless kind of life much longer.” + +“I don’t know as you need to worry about that if I do not,” he +retorted, and abruptly left the room. + +His keen-witted wife at once reasoned that he was very much +worried--that if he had not been extremely short of funds her simple +questions would not have irritated him thus, while at every change they +had made of late he had taken cheaper lodgings and curtailed their +expenses in a number of ways which seriously affected their comfort. + +She became very much troubled by these things, for she felt that they +would only go on from bad to worse if Philip did not soon form some +definite plan of action. + +She knew that he possessed splendid talents; that he was capable of +going to the front in his profession if he would only “pocket his +pride” and put forth a little energy; and she felt that it was very +wrong of him thus to settle idly down and waste these precious months +right in the prime of his manhood. + +The place where they were living in Madrid was very dreary; the rooms +were small, the windows high, and the streets narrow and dirty, while +the food which she daily placed upon their table was anything but +palatable. + +Arley had never yet broken the hundred-pound note which Miss McAllister +had given her at parting, nor did she mean to do so now. She had never +even told Philip that she had it, and now she believed if he knew of +it he would insist upon using it, and thus he would sink even lower +in inanition; besides this, if he persisted in his present manner of +living, she could, if necessity compelled, use it to return to England +and Miss McAllister, who, no doubt, would be willing to give her a home. + +But this, of course, would be her very last resort. + +Still, her present position was anything but a comfortable one, +for, while Philip could speak the language fluently, she could not +understand it at all, and she was terribly lonely and homesick. + +Two months had passed since they came to Spain, and, being so much +alone, she had busied herself with drawing, and painting some in water +colors, so that she had quite a collection of pictures and sketches. + +These she brought out and looked at on this day, after her unpleasant +interview with Philip. + +She was wondering if she could sell some of them, or copy some of them +for sale, and thus better their condition somewhat. She felt that it +would be intolerable to remain in that place much longer. + +Still, she had voluntarily become Philip Paxton’s wife, and she was +determined to share his fortunes, good or bad--to be true to her +plighted vows just as long as it was possible to be. + +After looking her portfolio through she decided that she would make an +effort--it could do no harm, and it might result in much good. + +Selecting a few little sketches, she arranged her drawing materials and +colors, and set diligently about her work. + +For a week she labored unweariedly; then gathering up the result of +her work, she tied them carefully together, dressed herself with great +care, and, taking the package with her, went out. + +She was exceedingly nervous over her undertaking, for everything was +so strange in that--to her--half-barbarous city. She threaded her way +through the narrow, and in many places dirty, streets, until she came +out into the better portion of the city, and at length entering Montera +street, one of the finest in Madrid, she stopped before an art store, +where, after a moment of hesitation, she entered. + +Approaching the counter, she inquired, in the sweetest of voices and +purest of French, if that language was spoken by any one there. + +A reply in the affirmative was immediately given, much to her relief, +and then she laid her package down and asked that its contents might be +examined. + +The gentleman, who proved to be one of the proprietors, acceded to her +request, examining drawing after drawing with a critical eye. + +There were sketches of every variety--of places, people and scenes that +she had observed during her travels; there were fancy pieces, fruit, +flowers and figures; comic pictures, serious and sentimental, and all +executed with a freshness and spirit that made them charming. + +“They are very good--mademoiselle?” the gentleman said, uttering the +last word with questioning inflection, and casting an admirable glance +into the lovely face before him. + +“No, monsieur--madam, if you please,” Arley replied, drawing herself up +slightly. “Thank you for your praise,” she added, smiling. “And now, if +you think they are worthy, I would like to dispose of them, and perhaps +take orders for more.” + +He bent a glance of surprise upon her, running his keen eye over her +elegant attire, noticing its texture, its trimmings of rich lace, and +the jewels that she wore. + +“Ah! she is selling them for some one else,” he thought, and turned +his attention again to the pretty collection before him. + +His practiced eye told him that there was considerable merit in them, +and that, with a hint regarding certain points, the artist, whoever he +or she might be, might fill with great satisfaction a demand in his +line of business. + +The proprietor told her what he would give for her drawings, naming a +larger sum than she had hoped to receive, and requested her to supply +him with more, at an advance in price, if she improved upon the hints +which he wished to give her. + +She consented only too gladly, while she received, with a +wildly-beating heart, the money which he counted out to her, though +outwardly her manner was as calm and elegant as it had ever been in a +fashionable drawing-room in London; and then, with it clasped tightly +in her hands, she went back to her rooms, with a sense of exultation +in her heart such as she had never experienced before, and to thank +God for the talents which He had given her, and which she believed, +if necessity required, would insure her a future of independence and +comfort. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. + +BAD NEWS. + + +“From this time, no matter what comes--excepting accident or +ill-health--I am mistress of my own career,” Arley said to herself, +as, with a firm, quick step, she wended her way home after leaving the +art store. “If worst comes to worst I can earn my own living--I need +be dependent upon no one. And why should I not toil for my bread?” +she added, thoughtfully. “She--Ina--did, while I was living a petted, +spoiled child upon her money; and now, perhaps, it is no more than +right and just that I should take my turn and realize something of the +trials and hardships that she endured.” + +Philip wondered to see her bending over her drafting every time he came +into their sitting-room, and one day remarked upon her industry. + +“I did not know that you were so fond of your pencils and brushes, +Arley,” he said, as he glanced at the pretty sketch which she was +working upon. + +“I must fill up the time in some way,” she answered, quietly. “I cannot +go out here as freely as I have done elsewhere, for I cannot speak the +language, and these swarthy, fierce-looking people half frighten me. I +am very, very lonely much of the time. When will you take me home?” and +she looked up at him with tears of homesickness in her eyes. + +He scowled at the question. + +“I don’t know,” he said, and then muttered something else which she did +not catch. + +She regarded him questioningly, and saw that there was an anxious and +angry look on his face, while he began to pace the floor with a nervous +tread. + +“Is there anything that troubles you particularly?” she asked. + +“Yes, everything,” he answered, moodily; then asked: “Have you any +money, Arley?” + +She flushed a vivid crimson. + +She felt humiliated that he, a strong, active, capable man, should be +so lost to his sense of duty and manhood as to allow himself to become +reduced to the necessity of coming to her for money to defray their +needful expenses. + +“Yes, I have a little in my purse,” she answered, coldly. + +“How much?” he demanded, eagerly. + +“Four or five pounds, perhaps,” she said, more determined than ever to +keep the secret of her earnings from him. + +“Let me have a part of it, will you?” he asked, turning his back +upon her, while a blush of shame mantled his cheek as he made the +request; then he added, deprecatingly: “I am in a deucedly unpleasant +predicament just now, and--and a remittance which I was expecting has +not arrived.” + +“A remittance!” she repeated, with quick surprise. “I thought you told +me that you had nothing? You gave me to understand when we left home +that all you had you had with you--is it all gone?” + +“Yes.” + +“Then you have been trying to borrow,” she said, with abated breath. + +“Well, suppose I have? A man must live somehow.” + +“Somehow!” repeated Arley, scornfully. + +Then, rising, she confronted him resolutely, and said: + +“Philip Paxton, I will not live upon borrowed money; it is not honest.” + +“There is an old saying, I believe, that ‘beggars cannot be choosers,’” +he replied, with bitter sarcasm. + +“We need not be ‘beggars’ while you have your health and a pair of +hands to work with. You ought to go to work. Why will you not be a +man?” she said, scorn and righteous indignation quivering in her tones. + +“It is not exactly a comfortable feeling, when one has had plenty, to +be obliged to come down to such a level--to dig and delve like a common +laborer. It is rather galling to one’s pride, to say the least,” Philip +returned, with considerable heat. + +“I would rather ‘dig and delve like a common laborer,’ as you express +it, and get an honest living, than to exist as we have been doing for +the last six or eight months,” Arley said, with grave dignity. Then she +added: + +“But if you should return to England and resume your profession you +might do as well, if not better, than formerly, and we should, no +doubt, be much more comfortable than we are now.” + +“Do you suppose I am going back to England in this poverty-stricken +condition and have people laughing in their sleeve over the failure of +all my expectations?” Philip demanded, with a very red face. + +Arley’s lip curled and her eye flashed a scornful fire. + +“I should say that it would be at least more manly and honest than to +live like this and borrow of friends, with no prospects of ever being +able to repay,” she remarked, pithily. “But you need not go back. Why +not resume your profession here? You speak the language so well you +might make a beginning here. I will not murmur, though I am so homesick +that I feel as if I cannot stay here another day.” + +A sudden rush of tears blinded her as she said this, and her voice +broke. + +“I will do anything to help or encourage you if you will only give up +this kind of life and do right; but it is beneath you--it is mean to +impose upon the good-nature of one’s friends and then sit idly down +with folded hands.” + +Philip’s eyes fell and he flushed hotly. He felt the truth of her words +and cringed beneath her well-merited scorn; but he was still too proud +and obstinate to act upon her advice or his own convictions of duty and +right. + +Fate had, according to his way of thinking, used him very ill, and, +like a silly boy, he had run into a corner to sulk, instead of manfully +grappling with it and making himself master of the situation. + +“We will not discuss the matter further,” he said, coldly; “but if you +will let me have two or three pounds I will endeavor to satisfy our +landlord’s demands for the present.” + +Arley sighed heavily, but went to her room to get her purse, and when +she returned and took from it some pieces of gold to give him, Philip +watched her narrowly and noticed that there was more in it. + +He received it with a muttered “thank you,” and then immediately left +the room; while Arley, with burning cheeks and quivering lips, sat down +to her work again. + +There was a bitter pain in her heart, together with an unaccountable +consciousness that she was beginning to despise her husband for his +cowardice and meanness. + +The poor girl, however, was not conscious, happily, that her darkest +days were yet to come. + +She worked steadily on at her drawing, and in the course of another +week carried a second collection to the art store. + +Her employer was even better pleased with them than he had been with +her first efforts--she had improved upon the hints which he had given +her, and had really furnished him with some exquisite little things. + +The money which she received for them was more precious to her than +anything she had ever possessed, while a year ago she would have +laughed to scorn the thought that she could have prized the paltry sum +earned by her own hands. + +On her return to her rooms she was feeling very cheerful; her face was +brighter than it had been for some time, and Philip, who happened to +be in, observing it, wondered what had caused the change, while for +some time he had had an unpleasant consciousness that she was somehow +getting beyond him--rising above his level. + +He pointed to some letters which he had just brought in, and Arley’s +eyes glistened with eagerness at sight of them. + +Hastening to her room, she laid aside her hat and mantle, and then +returned to read them. + +One was from Miss McAllister--she recognized the cramped, old-fashioned +hand instantly; the other was from Annie Vane, and post-marked Horsham. + +Miss McAllister’s letter was, of course, seized upon first, for it +was from her dear old home, and though hers now no longer, yet the +tenderest memories clustered around it still. It was full of affection +for her; full of pleasant, sunshiny news, mingled with longings for her +speedy return. + +Ina added a “postscript” of three or four pages, telling her many +rambling yet harmless bits of gossip, which she knew would interest +her, and writing so kindly, even tenderly, that Arley’s heart went out +in her gratitude for her sweetness and goodness. + +She lingered long over this dear home letter, her face full of a +tremulous gladness, mingled with a wistful longing, which smote Philip, +who was covertly watching her, with a momentary sense of shame and +regret. + +After reading it through the second time she folded and laid it down +with a sigh of regret that there was no more of it to read, and, +taking up the other, broke the seal in an absent way. + +But as she removed the closely-written sheet from the envelope a cry +of startled surprise broke from her, for it was edged with black and +blotted in many places with tears. + +With a terrible feeling of foreboding, she hastily scanned the pages, +and learned with grief and horror the fearful news which had blasted +the pride and hopes of the household at Hazelmere. + +The letter was dated June 30th, and told how Wil Hamilton--gentle, +noble, promising Wil--had sailed for the United States at the appointed +time to join Major Powell’s expedition for Colorado; how he had written +home once after landing, in the best of spirits and so hopeful, +so full of life and anticipation. Then there had come to them the +dreadful news that, while the party were passing over a mountain, he +had fallen over a precipice into a dark and gloomy ravine below. There +had been an immediate search made for him, but when they reached the +bottom of the chasm into which he had fallen his body was nowhere to +be found--nothing but his hat and a handkerchief covered with blood +remained as evidence of the terrible tragedy. + +“It was possible,” Major Powell’s secretary wrote, “that some fierce +animal had immediately seized upon the unfortunate young man, dragged +him to his lair, and there devoured him.” + +Such was the terrible blow which had fallen upon the hitherto happy +household at Hazelmere. + +Sir Anthony was absolutely crushed, Annie wrote, with a trembling +pen; her mother nearly deranged over the loss of her boy, while as +for herself, she said that life would never be the same to her again +without her dear brother. + +But Lady Elaine--their charming, beloved “Lily of Mordaunt”--it seemed +at first as if the shock must certainly kill her. + +She relapsed from one fit of unconsciousness to another, until their +physician was almost in despair, fearing that she would never rally +from them. But death had no intention of so mercifully releasing her +from her misery, and she gradually recovered. + +Arley wept bitterly over this letter; it was so sad to think of noble, +promising Wil Hamilton meeting with such a fate! It seemed such a +useless sacrifice to him to leave his home and country, all his bright +hopes and prospects, and, taking his life in his hand, go into the +wilds of a foreign land to die so tragically. + +“Have you bad news, Arley?” Philip asked, surprised by her sudden and +passionate sobbing. + +For reply she merely held out the letter to him and then crept away to +her own room to weep out, unrestrained, her grief for her friend, the +Lady Elaine, and her ruined life. + +Philip Paxton, meanwhile, sat outside, reading Annie Vane’s letter. +When he began to take in the meaning of it he swore an oath; then, +devouring the rest of it with eager eyes, he cast it angrily from +him, and, springing to his feet, began pacing the floor with restless +steps, his face deeply flushed, his eyes glowing with a sort of evil +excitement and purpose. + +Back and forth, back and forth, he went, his boots creaking ominously +with every step, until Arley grew terribly nervous at the sound, and +wondered if he would never stop; but, never dreaming of the treachery +that he was plotting against her, nor of the evil purposes which had +sprung into being and had taken root in his heart upon reading the +fatal news which her letter had brought. + +Surely his good angel must have been sleeping, or have deserted her +post, or he never would have planned such fell wickedness against the +brave, true woman whom he had already so injured. + +After a time that wretched pacing ceased, for he also retired to his +own chamber, and did not come forth again that day. + +His first feeling upon reading of Wil Hamilton’s tragic end had been +one of horror; the intelligence that the bright, cheery comrade, with +whom he had spent such pleasant years at college, had been suddenly +plunged into eternity in that fearful way, could not fail to unman him +for a moment. + +Then his heart had leaped with the startling thought that Lady Elaine +Warburton--and her twenty thousand pounds a year--was free! No troth +bound her now to another, and she might yet be won, with her immense +fortune, by some fortunate schemer who was bold enough to dare what he +meant to dare for her. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. + +ARLEY’S RESOLVE. + + +A few days later, as Philip was returning to his lodgings about four +o’clock in the afternoon, he saw, just ahead of him, the figure of his +wife, walking with quick, graceful steps down the fashionable street. + +Wondering what could bring her there, for he knew that she had not been +in the habit of going out much since they came to Madrid, he resolved +to follow her and ascertain her errand. + +He had not dogged her steps far before she turned into the art store +where she had already been twice before. + +Approaching nearer, Philip saw a fine-looking gentleman come forward +as she entered, and, after shaking hands with her, he pointed toward +the back of the store and seemed to be making some request of her. She +nodded assent, and then followed into another room at the end of the +shop. + +For the first time since his marriage, a feeling of jealousy arose in +his heart, and mingled with it there was a sense of shame and regret at +his own unworthiness. + +His better nature whispered that it was not yet too late to turn over a +new leaf, act according to the promptings of his conscience, make the +best of his talents and opportunities, as she had urged him to do, and +thus compel her to respect and perhaps love him again. + +But a terrible temptation had come to him a few days before, in the +shape of Annie Vane’s letter, and the intelligence of Wil Hamilton’s +death. + +Had it not been for this, he might have yielded to these better +feelings, but a demon was at hand to remind him that the Lily of +Mordaunt was free, and to tempt him to turn his espionage upon his wife +to his own selfish advantage in a way almost too vile for a human being +to contemplate. + +Before Arley came out of the inner office, where the proprietor had +invited her to go with him and show her sketches to some friends who +had been purchasing largely in the way of paintings and engravings, +Philip had disappeared, and she had no suspicion that her visit to the +art store had been observed. + +She found him in their parlor on her return, reading an English +periodical. He was very cool in his manner, but no more so than he had +been ever since she had spoken so plainly to him; and, therefore, she +could have no suspicion that he had resolved to institute a system +of espionage over her, with the malicious intention of ruining her +character. + +For several days he watched her constantly, but she did not go out at +all, seeming to be very much engrossed with her drawings. + +One afternoon, as she left her work for a little while, he stole softly +to her table, curiosity prompting him to see what she was so much +interested in. + +Two or three lovely, half-finished sketches lay there, and near them a +portfolio. + +Opening this, he found quite a collection of drawings, and some little +gems in water colors, and was greatly surprised by their beauty of +design and finished workmanship. + +Then all at once it flashed upon him what her errand to the art store +had been, and that this was how she had obtained those Spanish coins +which he had seen in her purse. + +“Ah!” he muttered, with a disagreeable smile, though a blush half of +anger, half of shame, leaped to his cheek at the thought, “if I won’t +work she is bound to, it seems, and to some purpose, too, or I am +greatly mistaken.” + +The next morning, while they were at breakfast, their landlord entered +bearing a tray, upon which a neatly-folded paper lay. + +He approached Philip and presented it, with his blandest smile and bow, +but with a look in his eye which expressed a dogged determination. + +Philip took up the paper, opened and read it, and then grew white with +anger. + +It was a bill for the past fortnight’s board, lodging and washing. + +He instantly recovered himself, however, and, with a smile and bow +equally affable as the landlord’s own, dropping the note again upon the +tray, he gracefully waved his white, shapely hand toward Arley. + +“Madam carries the purse--take it to her,” he said, in excellent +Spanish. + +The man flushed and glanced uneasily at “madam.” It was not according +to his ideas of what was right or correct with such business matters; +but, after a moment of hesitation, it flashed upon him that perhaps it +was an English custom, and therefore all right, and so, turning with an +even lower bow to Arley, he held out the salver to her. + +She also took up the paper and examined it; but she could not read a +word of it, although she saw at a glance that it was in the form of a +bill. + +“What is it?” she asked of Philip. “What does he want?” + +“He requests that his bill be settled, and, since I have no money, I +have referred him to you; perhaps you can accommodate him with the sum +required,” Philip replied, with averted eyes and rising color. + +Arley felt the blood rush back like a torrent upon her heart at this +indignity, and knew that she was growing very pale; but she also knew +that it would not do to allow the man, who was watching them closely, +to suspect that there was anything wrong; so, biting her lips to keep +the color in them, she quietly arose and went to get the money. + +She had become familiar enough with Spanish figures to see that the +bill called for forty escudos and fifty reals, or between four and five +pounds of English money. + +This would take nearly all that she had earned--almost every +peseta--and a bitter sob choked her as she counted it out and found her +purse so nearly empty. + +It was not so much on account of the loss of the money as the manner +in which it had been demanded, and the humiliation of feeling that her +husband was so lost to all sense of honor and responsibility regarding +his duty toward her. + +What would they come to if this continued?--where and how would it all +end? + +Surely it was a dark day for the petted and tenderly reared Arley +Wentworth. + +But she swept back into their sitting-room with the air of a queen, +and, going to Philip, dropped the coins into his hand, while with a +gesture she directed the man to go to her husband for his pay; he +should at least have the credit of settling their bills, even if he +could have the face to appropriate her own hard earnings for that +purpose. + +The man receipted the bill, and then, with a profusion of bows and +thanks, retired, leaving the husband and wife once more alone. + +When the door closed, their eyes, as if drawn by some magnetic +influence, were lifted and met. + +In Philip’s there was a look of sullen defiance, mingled with something +of shame; in Arley’s, an expression of scorn and resolution born of +despair. + +She arose and stood before him, one white hand resting upon the table, +the other hanging by her side. + +“Philip Paxton, this kind of thing can go on no longer,” she said, in +low but decided tones. + +“Indeed! Won’t you tell me what you mean by ‘this kind of thing?’” he +asked, with a sneer. + +“This manner of living.” + +“Oh! then won’t you be so good as to tell me how it is to be +helped?--it is an enigma beyond my power to solve,” he replied, in the +same tone as before. + +“You know well enough how it can be helped,” Arley cried, with a quiver +of passion in her tones. “Have you no shame?--have you no honor or +manhood, that you keep me here in this strange country, where I am +comparatively helpless, and subject me to such degradation? I will +not bear it; I am your wife, and it is your duty to take care of me. +I have not complained--I have uttered no word of reproach at being +dragged from country to country, suffering increasing discomfort with +every change; I have borne it patiently, hoping that your eyes would +be opened and that your better nature would triumph at last; but my +patience is exhausted--I will not live like this another day.” + +“How will you help it, Arley?” Philip asked, dryly. + +“I will take care of myself,” she answered bravely. + +“How independent you will be! Have you, like the fairies of old, a +magic wand, by which you can summon the goddess of wealth to your feet? +If so, please wave it for our mutual benefit,” he returned, with a +laugh. + +“Sneers and irony ill become you, Mr. Paxton,” Arley replied, with +proud dignity, adding: “But what I have said I mean--I will not live +like this another day.” + +She turned and walked from the room with a step and bearing that +excited his admiration. + +“Whew! I had no idea that the little thing had so much spirit,” he +muttered, as the door closed after her. “What will she do, I wonder? I +know what I hope she will do and leave me free to carry out my scheme +as I wish,” saying which he took his hat and went out. + +When he returned to dinner he found Arley in her traveling-dress, as if +ready for a journey. + +She was very pale, but every line of her face expressed resolution. + +She arose as he entered and asked, abruptly: + +“Philip, will you go home?” + +He started at the sound of his name, for it was the first and only time +she had addressed him thus since leaving England, while the appeal in +her tones touched him for the moment. + +She looked very beautiful, very lovable, standing there with that +appealing face, her wistful eyes fixed so earnestly on his, her small +hands clasped and half extending to him. + +But instead of being won, he was only angered by her words. To think of +going back to England without a pound in his pocket galled him beyond +endurance, especially as he realized that he alone was to blame for +this disgraceful poverty. + +“No, I will not!” he replied, almost fiercely. + +“Then will you resume your profession here, or do something--anything, +to earn an honest support for us?” + +Her tone was very patient, but there was a gleam in her eye which told +him that the question meant more than it appeared to mean. + +“No. I will not be dictated to--I will not be told by a woman what I +ought and what I ought not to do. And as for our going back, you know +that is out of the question--we could not, even if I would consent.” + +“I have a number of valuable jewels, and I would gladly dispose of +those to pay our passage,” Arley said, with downcast eyes and flushed +cheeks, and determined to use every argument in her power. + +Yet she would not tell him that she had money, lest he should demand it +of her and thus leave her powerless to go back by herself if worse came +to worst. + +“I will not go back, I tell you,” he repeated, sullenly, then added, +with a touch of malice: “Now you perceive the wisdom of my advice about +keeping your money when you might have had it just as well as not, +and we need not have been in this cursed plight. You feel the need of +it now, as I meant you should, and it won’t hurt you in the least to +experience some discomfort for being so obstinate.” + +“No,” Arley said, with uplifted head, “it will not hurt me--it can +never hurt me, for I have at least retained my self-respect.” + +Her flashing eyes and curling lips told him as plainly as words could +have done whom she could not respect. + +“I hoped,” she resumed, in a tremulous voice, “that you would consent +to what I have proposed, for I did not wish to take any radical +measures; but, as I have said, I will not live thus. I have been +out this morning to engage a less expensive room for myself, and I +am going to occupy it this evening, unless you will give me your +promise to change your mode of life--and as soon as I can I shall make +arrangements to return to England.” + +He started at this, and regarded her earnestly for a moment. He saw +that it was no idle threat; she meant every word that she uttered. + +“Do you know what usually follows when a woman leaves her husband’s +care and protection?” he asked. + +“Surely, you cannot accuse me of leaving my husband’s ‘care and +protection?’” Arley retorted, with impulsive sarcasm. + +The hot blood mounted in a flood to Philip’s brow, showing how keenly +he felt this well-merited reproof. + +“I have no choice,” she added, wearily, and half regretting that she +had spoken so hotly; “we cannot remain here honorably, for you cannot +meet our expenses, and we should only have the disgrace of being turned +out of doors at the end of another two weeks or month, if our landlord +was not paid. My address will be No. 4 ---- street, if you should need +me for anything especial, Philip. I should have been so glad if we +could have been more united,” and here the tears welled up into her +beautiful eyes. “I would have liked to be a true and faithful wife to +you, in spite of the wrong which you did me in the beginning; but you +have put such obstacles in my way that it has been impossible. But +even now, if you should be ill and need me before I go back to England, +I will come to you and do what I can for you. Good-night, Philip.” + +She left him and went to her own room, and Philip Paxton was in +anything but a comfortable frame of mind. + +An hour later Arley took her departure for No. 4 ---- street, where she +spent her first night as wretched, and lonely, and homesick as it was +ever the lot of any one to be. + +But she intended to go to the English consul the next day, and put +herself under his care until she could hear of some one who would take +charge of her back to England. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. + +JANE COLLINS’ STORY. + + +Arley awoke, weary and unrefreshed, the next morning. She had +experienced a sense of protection and safety while abiding beneath the +same roof with Philip, even though she saw so little of him; but now, +alone in her new quarters, with no one to whom she could speak one +word, a feeling of desolation, almost of despair, settled down upon her. + +After eating her simple breakfast, which she had arranged to have +brought to her room, she dressed herself with great care for her call +upon the English consul. + +When she arrived at the residence of the consul, she gave her card to +an usher, and was shown into a reception-room, where she found several +others, who, like herself, were seeking an interview with her majesty’s +representative. + +Arley sat down upon a vacant chair to wait her turn, and then glanced +about her to see if she could find an English face among her visitors. + +No; they were all foreign--German, French, Russian, and, for aught that +she knew, Turk and Mohammedans, but not one regular John Bull among +them all did she see. She heaved a sigh of regret, and a feeling of +loneliness began to steal over her again. + +Suddenly, however, every nerve in her body tingled with a strange +delight, for, directly behind her, she heard an unmistakable English +voice say, in a loud, eager whisper: + +“John, John! do ye remember the beautiful lady that was picked up at +sea, eighteen years ago, by the vessel that brought us from Bombay?” + +A shock like electricity shot through Arley at these words, and turning +her head a trifle, she saw, seated in the shadow of a curtain a little +back of her, a burly, red-faced Englishman and, as she supposed, his +wife. + +But she pretended not to hear what had been said, while, in fact, she +was straining every nerve to catch what should come next. + +“I’m not likely to forget the leddy, mother, when I helped to haul +her aboard, and thought sure she were dead, when her purty white face +dropped so heavy on my shoulder.” + +“‘Sh, John! not so loud, man; but the first chance ye get, give a look +at the purty girl sitting right afore ye, and tell me if she isn’t the +very image of the leddy ye helped to haul aboard the _Black Swan_ on +her home’ard voyage? I tell ye, man, she has the very same pair of eyes +and wavy brown hair, the same pretty red lips and baby chin.” + +Arley felt all her strength suddenly leave her, as if all power to move +even hand or foot had deserted her. She seemed like some frozen image +planted there, without either life or motion, though she was filled +with a nervous, inward trembling. + +Had she come all the way to Spain--had it been needful for her to +suffer all that she had suffered during the past year, to be led hither +in this strange way, under such peculiar circumstances, in order to +discover who she was, and to have the great enigma of her life revealed +to her? + +Arley could not endure the suspense another moment, and she moved her +chair so as to face the couple. + +“I beg your pardon,” she said, politely, but looking very white; “I +could not help hearing what you both have said. Will you please tell me +the name of the lady of whom you were speaking, and whom you say I so +closely resemble?” + +“Land alive, John! it’s her very voice, too, or my ears deceive me,” +exclaimed the woman, in a startled tone, to her husband, and regarding +Arley more curiously than before. + +The young lady began to tremble visibly, and it was only by a strong +effort that she kept her teeth from chattering audibly--was she about +to learn the truth at last? + +“I am so glad,” she said, after a moment and to give them an +opportunity to recover somewhat from their surprise, “to have found +some of my countrymen here, for you perceive that I am English like +yourselves. I came here hoping to hear of some one who might be about +returning to England, but it is very strange, I think, that I should +have chanced to sit just here and overhear what you have said. Will you +please tell me of whom you were speaking?” + +The man and the woman looked at each other in perplexity; the +resemblance of which they had spoken was growing upon them every +moment, until it almost seemed that the lady they had referred to +stood again before them, and was addressing them. + +“Well, well, miss, this are very queer,” the man said at last; “I don’t +think I’m dreamin’, but if ye were not so young looking, I sh’d say ye +were the very leddy herself.” + +“Her name--please tell me her name.” + +Arley could scarcely control her impatience. + +But before the man could reply an attendant entered the room and +announced that his excellency, the consul, had just received important +dispatches calling him away, and he would therefore be unable to +receive any visitors that day. + +Upon hearing this, most of the people beat a hasty retreat, muttering +their disappointment in no amiable mood, and Arley and her two strange +companions were thus left the sole occupants of the room. + +“Now we can converse undisturbed,” she said, eagerly, as the last one +departed, “and I will tell you why I am so anxious to learn the name of +the people of whom you have spoken. There is a mystery hanging over my +parentage, and I was separated from my parents by an accident at sea, +and have never seen them since; so you perceive that it is not strange +that I should think from what you have said that you could perhaps +throw some light on this dark subject for me.” + +“Ah! miss,” the woman said, with a regretful shake of her head, as +Arley paused and looked appealingly at her. “I’m sure no one could +refuse to oblige a pleasant-spoken leddy like yourself if one could +help it, but we don’t know the name of the beautiful leddy who looked +enough like ye to be yer twin sister----” + +“You don’t know the name?” Arley interrupted, in a tone of bitter +disappointment, her heart sinking heavily at this intelligence. + +“No, miss. Ye see this was the way of it: My man and I had been on a +long voyage from Portsmouth, England, to Bombay, in the _Black Swan_, a +sailin’ vessel under Captain Conway. We’ve been sailors together, miss, +ever since we were married, he on the deck and I as stewardess; for, ye +see, bein’ rather fond o’ one another”--and here the buxom dame blushed +like a girl in her teens--“one didn’t like to leave t’other behind. +Well, we’d hed a fine voyage most of the way till we entered the Bay +o’ Biscay, when things began to look kind o’ threatenin’. Just about +sunset one day a great steamer passed us, and everybody on board looked +as gay and smilin’ as could be and gave us three hearty cheers with +wavin’ kerchiefs, as if they’d had a good passage so far, and were in +high feather over it. She, the steamer, soon went out of sight though, +and we thought that was the last of her for us, and I couldn’t help +frettin’ to think how much faster she sailed than the _Black Swan_, and +how much sooner she’d reach port. But I had reason to thank Heaven, +miss, for the slow sailin’ vessel afore many days. A storm blew up that +night--such a storm as I hope never to be out in again. Me nor my old +man never expected to set foot on land, and for three days and nights +we didn’t do much but pray. But the fourth day the wind went down some, +and we knew the worst was over. + +“Well, just as we were roundin’ Point St. Matthew we came upon signs of +a wreck--floatin’ spars, boxes, kegs, stools, and such like, and later +on durin’ the day, we saw a queer lookin’ object to the leeward of us, +with something like a white flag flyin’ from it. Our captain thought +it looked suspicious, and ordered his men to bear away toward it, and +after a while he had a boat lowered and sent to see what it meant. + +“It was well that we came upon it just as we did, for it proved to be a +great chicken-coop, with a man and woman lashed to it, and both nearly +dead from the cold, and bein’ dashed about in the wild waves. They were +brought aboard the _Black Swan_, and given up to me to see if I could +find any life in ’em. + +“The man came round all right after a little, but it was a tough job +fetchin’ the woman to, but she managed to weather it after a while, and +then it was enough to break your heart to hear her take on. + +“‘My baby--my Allie,’ were the first words she said when she came to +herself, and her husband, who never left her a minute after he got her +senses back, bent over her and said in a hoarse voice, and his face +as white as a sheet, ‘Marg’ret don’t you remember? Darlin’, let us be +thankful that we are spared to each other.’ + +“Upon that the leddy gave a scream and fainted dead away again. Well, +it’s no use tellin’ you of the time I had with her, but she just about +grieved herself to death, and couldn’t bear her husband out of her +sight for a single minute. Day in and day out he sat in the captain’s +stateroom--for he gave it up to them and bunked it like a common +sailor--holdin’ her in his arms when she was awake, and talkin’ in a +soothin’ way to her, but lookin’ as if he were just ready to die with +grief himself when she was asleep and he was left to his own thoughts. +I had to feed her like a baby, for she was too weak to help herself, +and she was so pretty and gentle that I couldn’t help lovin’ her with +all my heart; while I’m free to confess I never did so much blubberin’ +in all my life as I did in those two weeks that we were makin’ for +Portsmouth, after we took them two castaways on board. But it was +enough to break the stoutest heart to hear that poor mother grievin’ +for her lost baby. + +“La, miss!” as Arley buried her face in her handkerchief and sobbed +over the sad story, “I didn’t mean to upset ye like that, though I can +never tell about it without gettin’ soft myself, for all it’s more’n +eighteen years ago. But as for her name, I were so bound up in takin’ +care of the poor thing, that I never once thought to ask who she were, +and I never heered the captain say. We sailed into Portsmouth harbor +all right one fine morning, and after I had wrapped the leddy up in my +warm shawl to be taken ashore--for the day was cold--she seized both my +hands, and said with her white, tremblin’ lips: + +“‘Oh, you good woman, I ought to bless these hands that have helped to +bring me back to life, and I do--I do for my husband’s sake; but my +heart is broken for my baby--my pretty angel, Allie!” + +“The gentleman gave me a fifty-pound note, with a hearty ‘Heaven bless +ye,’ just before he carried her up on deck, and I’ve never set eyes on +either of ’em, nor heard one word about ’em since.” + +“Do you know the name of the steamer that they were on when they were +wrecked?” Arley asked, with almost breathless eagerness, when the woman +ended her story. + +“Yes, miss; it were the _White Star_, and she were bound from Calcutta, +India, to England.” + +Arley started, and a cry escaped her; it was the same vessel on which, +it was supposed she had sailed with her nurse for England over some +eighteen years ago; and thus it became evident that there had been +two children of about the same age on board that ill-fated steamer. +There might have been more--she did not know; but she was quite sure +now that both Ina and herself had been among the passengers, and while +Ina had drifted into the hands of those rude fishermen on the coast of +Spain she had been rescued by one of the sailors of the _White Star_, +mistaken for her, and thus sent to Dr. McAllister of London. + +Something within her told her that she belonged to the beautiful woman, +to whose sad story she had just listened--something aside from the +strong resemblance to her of which this honest couple had spoken; and +she felt that at last she held a clew, though a very faint one, to the +mystery of her parentage. + +It was very unsatisfactory, however, and would doubtless require +diligent and patient search and inquiry in order to make it of the +least avail, while it was possible that she might never get beyond this +point. + +“I believe you have been telling me about my own father and mother,” +she said, in a trembling voice to the woman. + +“Land alive, miss, ye don’t mean it!” was the astonished rejoinder, +while the burly John leaned forward, wonder depicted on his face. + +“Yes, I feel quite sure of it,” Arley said; “but oh! if you could +only have told me their name, the way out of this puzzle would be +comparatively easy.” + +Then she told them something of her own life, for she felt it was due +to them after their courtesy to her. + +“It are all like a story, miss, and it’ll all come out right at last, +never fear,” said John; “and,” he added, “all ye’ve got to do when ye +go back to England is to hunt up the captain of the _White Star_, if +he’s livin’, and the rest’ll be easy enough.” + +“If he’s living?” Yes, that was it; if the steamer had been wrecked it +was more than probable that the captain had gone down with her, and +thus the sequel to her secret remain forever buried in the deep waters +of the ocean. + +Arley heaved a sigh, but she looked into the faces before her with a +smile, and asked: + +“Will you kindly tell me your name? I am very thankful to you for +telling me this story.” + +“My name? Sartin, miss. It’s Jane Collins, and it’s one I’ve never had +reason to be ashamed on either,” was the satisfied reply, while the +honest creature bestowed an affectionate glance upon her husband. + +“John here has been a good man to me,” she added; “and we’ve been +middlin’ prosperous in this world’s goods, and we’ve roved the world +pretty much over together, first and last.” + +“Shall you go back to England soon?” Arley inquired, with a sudden +heart-bound, and feeling that she could trust herself with these rough, +but evidently honest people, more fully perhaps than she could with +others who might be wiser in the ways of the world. + +“Yes, miss. The _Rocket_--that’s the vessel John’s mate aboard, and I’m +stewardess--starts on her homeward voyage next week, of a Wednesday.” + +“Would you let me go with you? Could I obtain a passage in the vessel?” +Arley asked, eagerly, while her voice trembled with the earnestness of +her plea. + +“A sailin’ vessel ain’t no kind of a place for a delicate young leddy +like ye,” Jane Collins remarked, doubtfully, as she eyed Arley’s dainty +figure, from top to toe. + +“Oh, I would not mind the vessel, if I only might go home; and, +somehow, I feel as if I should be very safe with you and your husband,” +Arley said, while tears of entreaty actually gathered in her eyes. + +Jane bestowed a grateful look on her as she said this; then she replied: + +“Sure, miss, we’d do the best we could for ye if ye did go, but we +are all in the Lord’s hands. What d’ye say, John?” and she turned a +questioning glance upon her husband. + +“Reckon we can fix it somehow,” he returned, laconically. + +“Oh, thank you! thank you!” Arley murmured, and the sweet brown eyes +brimmed over with the glittering drops which told how intense were her +longings after England and home. + + + + +CHAPTER XX. + +ARLEY’S ILLNESS. + + +“I fear you will think me very foolish,” Arley said, trying to smile +through her tears; “but indeed I am very anxious to go home.” + +“No, dear heart, I’ve been homesick myself afore now,” Mrs. Collins +responded, sympathetically. + +“But how happens it that ye’r alone in this strange country--that +you’ve no one to go with ye to take care of ye?” she added, with a keen +glance into the fair, flushed face. + +“I do not like to tell you about it here,” Arley replied, looking +furtively around, as if she feared some one might be within hearing. +“Could you come to my lodging some time to-morrow or next day? Then I +will tell you more about how I am situated, and why I am so anxious to +secure an escort back to England.” + +Yes, Mrs. Collins said, she would come to-morrow, and Arley gave her +the address; then, thanking her for her kindness, she took leave of +them both and returned to her lodging quite content with her day’s +work, even though she had failed to see the consul. + +On entering the room, however, she was dismayed at the state in which +she found it. + +She knew she had left it in perfect order when she went out. Now her +closet door stood wide open, and her clothing appeared to have been +tossed about. Her writing-desk was also open and her papers scattered +about in confusion. Her trunk, likewise, had been tampered with, for +its contents had been roughly turned over and left in a disordered +state. + +But after a hasty glance at these things she turned to her +dressing-case, a look of great anxiety on her face. The upper drawer +was partially drawn out, but she knew that she had been careful to lock +it and put the key in her purse before going out. + +With a cry of dismay, she sprang forward, drew it further out, and +looked into it. + +Her face, and even her lips, turned ghastly pale as she did so; her +eyes stared wildly at a vacant spot within it for a moment; then, with +a despairing moan, she dropped upon her knees, leaned her head against +the drawer, sobbing as if her heart were broken. + +Her jewel-box was gone, and it contained all that she had except what +she had worn that morning. + +Her diamonds were, of course, more valuable than anything else, and she +had saved them by wearing them; but there were many things which she +had prized very highly in the casket, and it was very trying to have +them stolen from her thus. + +Still, she could have borne even this with fortitude, but for one +thing; in one of the compartments pinned to the velvet cushion, there +was the hundred-pound note which Miss McAllister had given her on her +wedding day, and which she had carefully preserved through everything +for a case of emergency. + +Now all her hopes were blasted, for, without funds what could she do? +She could not go home without money to pay her passage; she could not +live there, or anywhere, without it. Her purse was nearly empty. She +did not know how long she might find employment at the art store; and, +besides, it would take her so long--such a weary while to earn enough +to go home. + +For a time she was nearly wild over her loss, and did not know what to +do about it. + +She dared not tell her landlady that she had been robbed, lest she +might suspect her poverty and refuse to allow her to stay there. She +could not inform the police, for she could not speak the language, and +she had no faith to believe that she could recover her property if she +made her case known, while it might involve her in doubt and deeper +trouble. + +Philip could not help her pecuniarily, and it was probable that he +would not if he could, after the step which she had taken the previous +day. + +What made her start so suddenly at the thought of her husband, and the +color flame hotly over her whole face? + +Could it be possible that he would be guilty of so dastardly a deed as +to creep into her room and rob her thus? + +The thought came to her like a shock, and perhaps she would not have +suspected him if she had not told him that she would sell her jewels to +get money to go home. Remembering this made her feel that perhaps she +had put a temptation in his way, which, in his embarrassing situation, +he had not been able to resist. But after a moment she put the thought +from her--she would not believe anything so dreadful of him, even +though his treatment of her had been so unmanly. + +But it was a terrible blow to her, whoever was the thief, for there was +no going home now until she had earned the money, or unless--she could +sell her diamonds. + +She could not bear to do that, for they had been the last gift of Dr. +McAllister to her before his death, and they seemed almost sacred to +her. + +Wretched as she was, she resolved to lose no time in taking care of +them, lest they also should be stolen from her; so, struggling for +calmness, she unclasped them from her ears and throat, and sewed them +securely into the waist of a dress, stitched them in over the top of +whalebones, thinking that no one would ever suspect such a hiding-place +for them. + +This done, she strove to busy herself over her drawings, for she must +make the most of her time now; but she was so nervous and trembling +that she grew hot and cold at every sound--she imagined that she heard +steps creeping up the stairs and pausing at her door; she would listen +with painful intentness until every nerve quaked with fear, then, +bursting into a passion of tears, wept until she had no strength to cry +more. + +Thus the day and most of the night was spent, and morning found her a +pitiable object indeed--burning with fever and wild with delirium. + +When her landlady brought up her breakfast she knocked, but no one +came to open the door, though she could hear Arley talking in a rapid, +unnatural way within her room. + +She listened a few moments, and, being convinced that something was +wrong, she tried the door. + +It was fastened, as she expected; but being of a resolute nature, she +was not long in forcing an entrance, and found Arley in a high fever +and in an almost uncontrollable state of excitement. + +She did what she could for her temporary relief, and then sent for a +physician. + +When he came and made an examination of his patient he looked very +grave and pronounced her very ill. He prescribed for her; waited an +hour to see what effect his medicines would have, and as she became +somewhat more quiet he finally went away, promising, however, to come +again later in the day. + +Afternoon brought Jane Collins, who, by showing the address which Arley +had given her, and by signs, managed to make her errand known. + +The landlady saw at once that she was English, although belonging to an +entirely different class from that of her lodger, and she was only too +glad to conduct her upstairs to the sick girl’s room. + +The good woman was dismayed upon finding her in such a condition, and +saw at once that all hope of her returning to England with her in the +_Rocket_ was at an end; she knew that she was booked for a long and +tedious illness. + +She at once removed her bonnet and shawl and by signs made the woman of +the house to understand that she wanted water and towels. + +She was a kind-hearted creature, and comprehended at once that Jane +wanted to give the sick girl a bath, and hastened to bring everything +necessary. + +Then with a gentleness which one would scarcely have thought she was +capable, she sponged the sufferer, who, though she did not recognize +her, seemed to be grateful for the attention, and grew gradually +quieter under the soothing process, until, when she had finished and +covered her with fresh linen, which she had asked to have brought for +the bed, Arley dropped into a deep, quiet sleep. + +Jane then donned her bonnet and shawl again and hastened back to her +own humble lodgings to tell John about the sad state in which she had +found the “beautiful young leddy,” and to get his consent for her to +remain with her until she should be better, or as long as she could +before the sailing of the _Rocket_. + +Honest John Collins’ tender heart went out to the lovely girl lying so +ill and desolate among strangers, and he bade his wife go back and stay +with her if she wished. + +She did wish, and, hastily putting together a few necessary articles in +a bundle, she returned to her post in the sickroom. + +There was much to try the good woman’s patience in assuming the +responsibility, for, of course, she could not understand a word of the +strange physician’s directions, although she liked his appearance and +treatment of Arley. + +The only way she could ascertain how to give his medicine was by making +him point out on Arley’s watch--which she had found under her pillow +and immediately taken possession of--the hours when they were to be +administered. + +For four days the poor girl was fearfully ill and utterly unconscious +of everything that transpired about her. + +But good Jane Collins was indefatigable, sparing herself in no way, +while she was as tender and motherly as if she had been the mother of +a dozen children, instead of a lone woman without one in the world to +love. + +On the fifth day Arley seemed somewhat more comfortable, and began to +have lucid intervals. + +The next day her mind was quite clear, and she recognized her attendant +with evident pleasure. + +“How came you here?” she asked. + +“Ye were sick, and John said I might come to take care of ye,” Jane +answered, her face beaming to hear her speak naturally once more. + +“How good it is of you!” Arley said, grasping the woman’s rough hand +and clinging to it with what strength she had. + +“Have I been very ill?” she asked, after a minute. + +“Yes, miss, very ill, and ye ain’t none too well now,” Jane returned, +regarding her somewhat anxiously. + +“Do you think I shall be sick long?” the young girl questioned, +wistfully. + +“I hope ye’re a trifle better this mornin’, but it’ll take quite a +spell yet for ye to get up where ye was afore.” + +Arley sighed heavily at this. + +“What day is it?” she asked. + +“Monday, miss.” + +“Monday!” with a startled look. “It was Tuesday that I saw you at the +consul’s. It must be nearly time to sail.” + +Her eyes were growing very bright, and the fever flush began to mount +hotly in her cheeks again. + +“Yes; the _Rocket_ sails Wednesday at noon.” + +Jane did not know what else to say. + +“And I can’t go,” Arley wailed, with a hysterical sob. + +“Hush, dearie! ye’ll do yerself mischief if ye get to cryin’,” the +woman said, soothingly, while she smoothed the pretty brown head as +tenderly as a mother would have done. + +“But I did so want to go home,” Arley replied, with quivering lips. + +“I know--I know, and I wanted to have ye,” Dame Collins responded, +while a huge lump rose in her throat; “but, after all, dearie, a +sailin’ vessel ain’t no fit way for the like o’ ye to be travelin’ in; +it’ll be much better for ye to take passage in some steamer and go as a +leddy should go.” + +“But I cannot go alone--I’m afraid,” and Arley clung to her companion +almost in terror, while a feeling of desolation surged like a huge +billow over her. + +The woman hardly knew what to say to her. + +She felt it might do her great injury if she should get excited, and +yet she knew that some arrangements ought to be made for her future +care. She longed to stay herself, for she felt a strange yearning for +the beautiful but forlorn stranger; but she could not. + +“Where do you sail from?” Arley asked, after a few moments, and +struggling to be calm. + +“Valencia, miss, where they are loadin’ the packet with fruits and nuts +as fast as ever they can, and my old man and me will have to start +early Wednesday mornin’, so’s to be on hand. It makes my old heart +ache, dearie, to go and leave you behind, sick and alone, and--and--” + +She wanted to ask how Arley happened to be there so friendless in that +strange country, but a sort of rude delicacy prevented her from putting +her curiosity into words. + +But the sick girl understood her, and, though a vivid blush rose to her +forehead, she finished the sentence for her. + +“And you cannot understand how I happened to be in such a desolate +condition. I will tell you; you have been so good to me that you have +earned the right to know, and I am too miserable to care who knows it +now,” she said, wearily. + +She then gave a brief account of her life since leaving London, telling +how she and her husband had wandered from place to place, their +comforts growing less and less because of the lack of funds, and how, +after coming to Madrid, their resources had failed entirely. + +Her eyes drooped and her cheeks burned with shame as she told how +she had begged her husband to get something to do to improve their +condition, and that when he had refused she had sought employment and +earned enough to keep out of debt. + +“But I could not live so,” she said. “I felt that I must go home or my +heart would break, and so I went that morning to the consul’s to see if +he could tell me of any parties about to return to England with whom I +could go. I felt so elated,” she added, “when you told me that I could +return with you, even though it would be in a sailing vessel, and I +knew that the voyage would be long and wearisome.” + +Then she related how, on her return from the consul’s, she found that +she had been robbed of her jewels and the money which she had been +depending upon to pay her passage, and how she had been plunged into +depths of despair upon making the discovery. + +“It was this which made me ill,” she said; “it gave me such a shock, +and I grew so nervous and excited over my loss that it made me sick,” +and Jane saw that excitement was fast hurrying toward the verge of +delirium again. + +“Never mind the loss of the money, dearie,” she said, soothingly; “it +were a good deal to lose, I own, and the scamp who took it’ll get +his pay yet I promise ye; but Jane Collins hasn’t the heart to see +ye take on like this for the matter of a few pounds; ye shan’t want +for anything that a little money can buy; John and me’ll let ye have +whatever ye need, and when ye get back to the old country, and the good +aunt that ye’ve been telling me about, ye can make it all right with me +again, if ye like.” + +Arley was greatly comforted by this, and began to grow calmer at once. + +“What should I have done if it had not been for you?” she said, +gratefully. + +“The Lord always takes care of His helpless ones, and if He hadn’t sent +me, ’twould have been some one else,” Jane responded, with simple faith. + +“But where is this”--“villain,” she was going to ask, but changed her +mind before the obnoxious word was spoken and substituted--“man who has +used ye so badly?” + +Arley gave the street and number where she and Philip had boarded; +then, after thinking a moment, she asked: + +“As you must go soon, and there will be no one but strangers to care +for me, perhaps it will be best to send word to my husband regarding my +condition, and it may be, when he sees how I am, he will be willing to +exert himself to take care of me.” + +Jane Collins’ face lighted at this proposal. + +She thought it would be the best, the only thing to do, and offered to +go at once in search of the recreant husband. + +Arley thanked her and consented, and Jane immediately started out upon +her errand. + +She easily found the place to which she had been directed, and +presented to the landlord, who answered her summons, Mr. Paxton’s name, +which Arley had written upon a card for her. + +She was made to understand that Mr. Paxton was not there--that the +gentleman and his wife had both gone, and they did not know whither. + +The fact of the case was that when Philip found that his wife was +determined to go he, too, left on the same day, and their landlord +believed that they had gone together to some other place. + +It was with a heavy heart that Jane Collins returned to poor Arley with +this intelligence, for she well knew how critical her condition was, +and what a terrible thing it would be to leave her in that strange +city alone and so very ill. + +“If it wasn’t for John I’d stay,” she murmured to herself, with a +troubled face; “but I’ve only him in all the world, and I just can’t +let him go without me.” + +And the faithful creature was much distressed by her desire to act the +part of the good Samaritan to the fair young invalid, while her strong +affection for her husband could not endure a long separation from him. + +Arley clung to her almost in terror upon learning how fruitless her +errand had been. + +“What shall I do? How can I bear to let you leave me?” she cried, in +despair. “I can trust you--you are good and kind, I know, by your face, +while I feel as if I was in a den of thieves. I believe I shall surely +die if I am left here alone.” + +She became so excited that Jane grew alarmed, but she had not one word +of comfort to offer, for it was indeed a hard case, and she could only +gather her in her arms and try to soothe her as she would have soothed +a child. + +The doctor came in during this scene and shook his head with great +displeasure as he saw the condition which his patient was in, and he +jabbered as fast as his tongue could fly, while of course neither of +his hearers could understand a word he said. + +At length, as if inspired by some happy thought, Arley raised her head +from Jane Collins’ shoulder and addressed him in French. + +To her delight he responded at once and with a very good accent, and +the look of care and misery began to fade out somewhat from her face. + +If she could make herself understood her situation would not be quite +so uncomfortable, and when she explained it to Jane she also looked +much relieved. + +Arley told the doctor that her kind friend would be obliged to leave +her in a day or two and that they were both much troubled on account of +the separation. + +But he spoke very kindly, telling her not to be troubled; he would make +her his special charge, and she should have every care that she needed, +and it was not long before he had the satisfaction of seeing her sink +back upon her pillow with a sigh of relief and an actual smile--though +a tremulous one--on her lips, at his assurance. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. + +A WICKED DEED. + + +“Dearie, it breaks my heart to go and leave ye like this! If it wasn’t +that my old man and me have never been parted for the thirty years +we’ve lived together, and it turns me cold and sick to think of it at +this late day, I’d never leave ye in this knavish country. But take +heart, miss; it isn’t so bad, now that ye can talk with the doctor, +and he’ll do everything he can for ye and get ye everything ye need. +I’ve taken care of that, and I believe he’s half human, if he has got +Spanish blood in him. And now, dearie, I must say good-by to ye. John +is waitin’ below for me, and he’s that sorry for ye that he couldn’t +sleep, but talked half the night about ye. He told me to give ye +this--it’s twenty-five pounds--and he hopes it’ll do ye until ye can +hear from the good aunt, and the doctor’s bill is paid up to now. Don’t +fret, dearie, for the Lord will hold ye in the hollow of His hand.” + +Thus spoke honest Jane Collins as she took leave of Arley late Tuesday +evening, for she was to leave Madrid for Valencia early in the morning. + +As she finished she crowded a roll of Spanish gold pieces into the sick +girl’s feverish hand. + +Poor Arley clung to her as if she could not let her go, while tears +rained over her wan face. + +“You have been such a kind friend to me,” she said, between her sobs. +“I shall never forget it; I can never repay it--the kindness I mean. +The money of course, you shall have back. But stay,” she added, +with sudden thought; “I have some diamonds; I wore them the day I +first met you. One of them is worth much more than the amount which +you have given me, and you shall have it for security, and then, if +anything happens that I do--not live to go home”--this with a little +shiver--“you will lose nothing.” + +“Tut, tut, miss; don’t talk like that. Ye’re young and ye’ll be all +right in a little while, and I shall yet see ye back, hale and hearty, +in ‘merrie England.’ But as for the di’monds, miss,” and the good +woman’s face flushed a deep crimson, “Jane Collins isn’t that close +that she’d wish to take the trinkets that were given to ye by some one +who loved ye and who ye loved, maybe. But hush, dearie!” she added, +in a whisper; “keep ’em close, keep ’em close, or somebody will be +stealin’ ’em, as they did the other things.” + +“But--but if anything happens to me, somebody else will get them +away, I’m afraid, and it would be too cruel for you to lose all your +hard-earned money,” Arley replied. + +“Nothing ain’t goin’ to happen to ye, dearie; I tell ye ye’re goin’ to +get well, and I couldn’t take the di’monds. When ye come back well and +hearty and have plenty once more, then ye can pay me if ye want to, but +if ye can’t--well, it’s only gone into the Lord’s treasury, and He’ll +take care of it,” and the good woman’s look of trust was something +wonderful to behold. + +“I shall love you all my life,” Arley said, chokingly. + +Jane Collins’ face flushed with pleasure, though tears rolled down her +ruddy cheeks. + +“Love is better than gold,” she remarked, sententiously; “anybody can +earn money, but barrin’ my good man, ’tis a long day since any one told +Jane Collins that she were loved. I don’t often get soft like this,” +she added, swallowing a sob, “but if ye don’t mind, miss, I would just +like to kiss ye once on the cheek and then say good-by.” + +Arley put up her arms, and, drawing the woman’s face down to her, +kissed her heartily. + +At that moment, when she was so wretched and desolate, the homely, +honest face of Jane Collins seemed the most beautiful and trustworthy +countenance in the world to her. + +But when at length the last word was said and she had gone with +reluctant feet from the place, Arley felt as if she had not a friend +left in the world. + +She was worse that night, of course, after all this excitement, and +the physician was much disturbed about her, while for more than a week +afterward there was a doubt in his mind whether she would ever be any +better. + +She was delirious most of the time, babbling of home, grandpa, auntie, +Lady Elaine and Hazelmere in the most confused manner imaginable. + +But at length she began slowly to mend; the fever abated a little +every day until she had none, and then there was a long struggle with +weakness and languor. + +As soon as she began to realize that she was really better, +however--when the doctor told her that if she would only have courage +and patience she would be all right again in time--she took heart and +resolved that she would get well with all possible speed. + +One night, some three weeks after this, the little physician trotted +down the stairs after leaving her room, a satisfied smile on his dark +face. + +He had been called from the city early in the morning to a patient at +some distance, and he had been unable to visit her until evening; but +he had been much pleased to find her greatly improved and actually +sitting up with a pretty white wrapper on and the suspicion of coming +color in her cheeks. + +He laughingly told her that she would be regarding him as an intruder +in a few days if she progressed at that rate, for his visits would be +needless. + +As he came out upon the street he almost ran against a man who appeared +to be lounging about the door. + +“What do you want?” he demanded, curtly, and eying him suspiciously. + +“There is an English lady sick within?” the stranger said, +questioningly. + +“Yes,” was the brief response of the physician, who saw that his +interlocutor was a foreigner and evidently English also, although he +spoke the language of Spain very correctly. + +“Is--is she better?” + +“Yes,” again briefly. + +“Will she get well?” + +“Yes, she is very nearly well now, but still weak, of course.” + +The stranger turned his head quickly, but not before the keen eyes of +the doctor had caught the look of disappointment which flashed from his +eyes. + +“The lady is a stranger, perhaps--would it be proper for one of her own +countrymen to offer sympathy and--assistance?” + +This was asked with a sort of nervous hesitancy. + +“Sympathy is well--assistance in a time of need is better; but thanks, +señor--she has a friend who can do for her all that she needs at +present,” and with a stiff little bow went his way. + +Philip Paxton--for it was he--glared after him, a flash of hatred in +his eyes. + +He had heard of Arley’s illness almost immediately, and had been in +the habit of prowling about her lodgings and interviewing the servants +regarding her condition. + +They had given very unfavorable accounts, enjoying, as their class +always do, something exciting to talk about, and he had been led to +believe that she would not recover. + +It was a shock to him now, therefore, to be told that she was getting +well, for, horrible as it seems, he had actually hoped that she would +die, so that he could carry out a cunning scheme which of late had been +developed in his brain. + +He left his lodgings the same day that Arley went away, and had also +gone into humbler quarters; while, a few days later, he might have been +seen in a gambling den, watching, with wild eyes and haggard face, the +turn of the wheel which would either make him a beggar or fill his +purse with gold. + +He won, and with a hoarse cry of joy he swept the pile of glittering +coins toward him, and then, in spite of the enticing invitation of +the banker to “try his luck again,” cramming them into his pocket, he +staggered from the place as if intoxicated with his good fortune. + +The next day found him in another den of the same kind--he was too +cunning to try twice in the same place--and again he won. + +“That will do,” he muttered; “it’s enough to give me quite a start, +and I’ll stop while I am safe,” and, buttoning his coat close over his +hoard, he stalked from the place, wholly unmindful of the dark looks of +the disappointed banker. + +He had told Arley, on that morning when she had paid their board out of +her own earnings, that he had no money. + +Whence, then, came the gold that he had staked at the gaming-table, and +that had enabled him to win more? + + * * * * * + +As soon as Arley was able to get out she went once more to the art +store where she had sold pictures to ascertain if she could still +continue to supply sketches there. + +The proprietor was shocked at the change in her, and she did, indeed, +look more like some frail, beautiful spirit than an earthly being; but +he told her that he would take all the work that she could do. + +Every day she grew stronger; every day she was able to draw a little +more, though the doctor, coming in occasionally to see how she +progressed and looking over her shoulder at her dainty work, muttered, +with a scowl of disapprobation, that he should have her again on his +hands if she did not take care. + +Arley raised her lovely dark eyes to his face, and he saw the terrified +expression in them. + +“Will it make me ill again? Please don’t tell me so, for I must work--I +must go home!” + +He knew that she had been robbed--she had confided so much to him--and +that she would have to earn money before she could return to her +friends, and he had favored her all he could in his charges. He wished +now, as he saw the desperate homesickness in her eyes, that he had +taken nothing from her, and so he had not the heart to tell her that +she must not work--indeed, he began to think that if deprived of +employment she might be in even more danger of another illness. + +“Well, well, be moderate, then, señora. Be careful and not apply +yourself too closely,” he said, and so her work went on. + +Arley wondered where Philip could be all this time. She wondered if he +knew what she had been suffering during the last six weeks. If he had +known and been there in the same city with her, he was certainly very +unfeeling and cruel not to come to her and at least offer her a word of +sympathy in her extremity. + +A month passed, the passage-money was almost earned, and Arley had +decided to sail on a certain steamer which would leave for England +within the coming fortnight, when, one morning, a servant brought an +official-looking document to her. + +With a look of wonder upon her face, which was growing wondrously +lovely every day now--sickness and sorrow had given it a sort of +refined beauty, such as it had never possessed before--she took the +strange-looking missive and broke the seals. + +She saw at a glance it was written in French; therefore whoever had +sent it knew that she was not familiar with Spanish. + +She began to read it, though the formalities and legal terms puzzled +her, but she kept on, until at last a low cry of horror burst from her. +Her eyes dilated with pain, her cheeks faded to the hue of death, and +she trembled so that the paper rattled in her hands. + +A blur seemed to obscure her sight, so that the words ran together +until she could not read them. She passed her hand across her eyes +to dispel it, and read again those stiff, formal sentences which had +agitated her so deeply. + +Then, as she comprehended their full meaning a vivid crimson mounted to +her brow, her nostrils dilated, her lips curled with mingled scorn and +bitterness. + +Philip Paxton had applied to the court of Madrid for a divorce from +his wife Arletta Paxton, and the paper stated two reasons for this--an +illegal marriage and subsequent desertion, and she was notified to +appear on a certain day to defend her case. + +Had it come to this, that with all her other troubles, she must be a +divorced wife? + +What was the man, who had won her with such fair, fond words--who had +vowed fidelity and sworn to love, honor and care for her until death +should part them--made of, that he could contemplate this fearful thing? + +But why should he claim that their marriage was illegal? + +This charge surprised her. + +How could their marriage be illegal when it had been performed in the +presence of so many witnesses, and with all the necessary forms and +ceremonies? + +Then, like a flash, it came to her that she had been married under a +name to which she had no right. She was not Arletta Wentworth, nor +Arletta anything else. The name that she was known by was not hers; it +was only retained for convenience, since she must be called something. + +Arley cast that hateful document from her with a gesture of loathing. + +“I have half a mind to appear against him,” she said; “it might be a +blessed freedom to me as well; to have these galling ties severed, even +though a divorce means nothing. I promised ‘until death should part +us’--and I meant it. Shall I sit quietly down and allow him to have his +way--allow the world to believe I deserted him and make no effort to +vindicate myself.” + +She mused a long time over these questions; but finally, with firmly +compressed lips and uplifted head, she added: + +“No; I will go and hear what he has to say for himself. I will face +him, and let him know that I consider our marriage legal, if he does +not. I will tell my story. I will tell how it happened that I deserted +him. I will not tamely submit to this indignity.” + +She sought a lawyer named Proquelin, who could speak French, but with +whom she was unfavorably impressed, to say the least. + +He was tall and straight as an Indian; his thin, lank hair, black as +the shades of Erebus, hardly covered his ill-shapen head, which was +tall and narrow like himself, a projecting forehead, wrinkled and +tawny, with heavy brows, overhung a pair of small, piercing black eyes, +which had a cunning gleam in them that actually made Arley shiver with +apprehension. He had high cheekbones, a thin nose, and a vile mouth, +within which there was a set of yellow, decaying, disgusting teeth--and +altogether he was exceedingly repulsive. + +Arley had more than half a mind to turn and fly from his presence, give +up the battle and go home as fast as steam and sail could take her, for +she was filled with distrust of the man the moment she beheld him. + +But he came forward upon her entrance, and addressed her courteously in +Spanish. + +She shook her head and replied in French that she did not understand; +whereupon he addressed her in that language, politely drew forward a +chair, and asked her to be seated. + +She complied, and then entered at once upon the object of her call. +She told him her story as briefly as possible, but all the while she +was relating it, with drooping eyes and flushed cheeks, the wily lawyer +was studying the fair face with a rude, inquisitive start, mingled with +intense admiration. + +“Yes, he would undertake the case for her,” he blandly told her, when +she concluded, and he added, he thought the case of the señora a strong +one. + +“But, pardon,” he added, with a low obeisance and an unpleasant smirk, +“if the señora is not fond of the señor still, why not let him go?--why +not allow him to get a divorce if he wishes, and be free from so +disagreeable a husband?” + +Arley flushed crimson at the question, and, with uplifted head and +flashing eyes, replied: + +“Because he has accused me falsely; my good name is at stake--my +character must be vindicated; he shall not take it before the public +and blacken it, without an attempt on my part to thwart his base +purpose.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. + +SAVED. + + +Señor Proquelin saw that he had a woman of spirit to deal with, that +she was on the alert, was keen-witted, and not lacking in decision of +character. + +He saw, too, that she was comparatively helpless in this disagreeable +predicament, and that, from the lack of witnesses in her favor, the +case was likely to prove a hard battle. + +But he was willing to undertake almost anything for money, while it was +not often that he had to deal with so pretty and interesting a client, +and he at once bestirred himself zealously in Arley’s case. + +He was a popular, sharp-witted lawyer, though unscrupulous, as the +sequel will show, and he was not long in discovering Philip Paxton’s +motive for seeking the divorce. + +He studied him, he watched him, he followed him constantly. There was +nothing he did that escaped the crafty lawyer’s notice, and Philip knew +it. + +He also was very keen at reading character, and he was not long +in taking the measure of his opponent. He saw that he was very +clever--that a case in his hands would be made the most of, and that he +was as persistent as a bulldog at carrying a point; but one glance at +that ill-shapen head showed him that cupidity was the strongest element +of his character, and one morning he took the crafty man by surprise +by paying him a visit in his office. + +The two were closeted a long-time with doors locked, and curtains drawn +close, and when at last Philip rose to go, there was a look of relief +and satisfaction on his face, while Señor Proquelin followed him to the +door with an obsequious bow, clinking a purse full of ruddy gold in his +hands. + +Alas! alas! for poor, persecuted Arley’s cause! + + * * * * * + +The day of the trial arrived, and the young husband and wife met for +the first time since their separation. + +Arley was thinner than when Philip last saw her, and her color was +not as brilliant, but as he glanced up, upon her entrance to the +court-room, he started, and actually held his breath, for never had he +seen her so lovely before. + +“Why on earth couldn’t she have been reasonable about that money?” he +muttered, with a deep-drawn sigh, “it’s almost more than a fellow can +stand to lose both her and her fortune.” + +The judge looked surprised when he saw her, and as if wondering how any +man could be willing to put away so beautiful a wife; and when Arley +for a moment lifted her eyes to his face as if to read what manner of +man was set there to pass judgment upon her, he saw in them a look of +appeal which touched him deeply. + +The court was opened, Philip’s case presented in all due form, and then +the trial proceeded. + +Of course, it was all like Greek to Arley; she could not understand +one word, and was obliged to depend entirely upon her counsel for an +interpretation of the proceedings, and, although whatever he told her +appeared plausible, yet she had not been there long before a strange +feeling of uneasiness and foreboding took possession of her. + +The court-room was not large, but there were a number of people present +who appeared to be interested in the case. + +One in particular Arley noticed seated in the further corner of the +room, and her heart throbbed, and her cheek burned when her glance +first fell upon him, for she felt quite sure that he was an Englishman. + +How could she bear to have him sit there and listen to her wretched +story, and then go back to England, perhaps even to London, and +proclaim it there? + +Several times she found herself looking at him and wondering who he +could be, as well as what motive could have induced him to come into +that place, that morning of all others, and as often she found him +intently regarding her. + +He had a frank, noble face, a manly form, and such kind, sympathetic +blue eyes. She longed to go and speak to him; and once she had almost +beckoned to him to come to her; then, with a sudden ringing in her +ears, a sense of faintness at the boldness of the act, she thought +perhaps he might be some one whom Philip knew, and whom he had enlisted +in his service. + +When Philip gave his evidence, she noticed that the stranger frequently +glanced from him to her, while a puzzled expression began to settle +over his face, and she found herself wondering with increasing +uneasiness what was being said regarding her. + +When she was called up to be questioned, she saw him lean eagerly +forward and prepare to listen intently. + +“Who can he be?” she asked herself, “and what possible interest can he +have in this affair?” then she gave herself to the task before her. + +The questions were put in Spanish to Señor Proquelin, who repeated them +in French to her, and then translated her replies for the benefit of +the court. + +Philip told his story glibly enough, stating that he had married Arley +believing her to be a Miss Wentworth, of London, with a fortune of +twenty thousand pounds, but that he had since discovered that she had +no right whatever to either name or fortune, and that a disagreeable +mystery hung over her parentage. More than all this, he made it appear +that throughout their travels she had conducted herself in an improper +manner, and particularly so since coming to Madrid, where he could +prove she had made appointments with a gentleman, receiving both +attentions and money from him, which no true and loyal wife should do; +and, finally, to cap all, she had deserted him entirely, and hidden +herself away in an obscure portion of the city, yet all the time +continuing to meet the gentleman referred to before. + +It was a story calculated to blacken the fairest character, and Philip +Paxton, with his fine face and figure, and with all his eloquence +called into exercise, did not fail to enlist the sympathies of most of +his listeners. + +This cunning story, however, was very imperfectly translated to Arley +by her treacherous counsel, and she could not understand the leers and +peculiar suspicious looks which were cast upon her when what appeared +to be her defense was repeated in turn before the court. + +She could not know that all her testimony, every answer to the +questions put to her, had been distorted and perverted in a way to +blacken her fair name forever--until she stood there before the court +self-condemned, having been made to admit all that Philip claimed +against her. + +The evidence was all in at last, and having been summed up, it was +evident to all that Philip Paxton would get his case, and poor Arley +would be obliged to go back to England a divorced woman, and with a +dark cloud hanging over her fair fame. + +But just as the judge was about to deliver his charge to the jury, +there was a stir in the back part of the room, and a stern, inflexible +voice cried out, in excellent Spanish: + +“Hold! I demand a hearing before this case goes into the hands of the +jury!” + +The next instant the gentleman whom Arley had noticed listening so +eagerly strode forward and stood before the judge. + +“May it please your honor,” he continued, in a clear, musical tone, “I +speak four languages with ease--English, French, German and Spanish.” + +Philip Paxton started violently at this, and exchanged an anxious +glance with Señor Proquelin. + +“I ask you to stay the proceedings of the court,” the stranger +continued, “or you will be guilty of a terrible wrong to an innocent +woman. Have I your honor’s permission to give evidence in favor of the +defendant?” + +Philip’s lawyer here interposed, objecting very strongly. The evidence +had all been given and summed up, he said, and if the stranger had +anything to offer he should have spoken before. + +Señor Proquelin turned of a mahogany color and grew exceedingly +restless; but of course he could offer no objections, since the +revelations were to be in favor of his client. + +The judge, however, was impressed by the manner of the stranger, and +waving Philip’s lawyer back to his seat, courteously told him to go on. + +“My name is Charles Herbert, and I am a baronet of Kent County, +England,” the newcomer resumed. “The merest accident brought me hither +this morning--I might say that I came out of idle curiosity, just to +see how your courts are conducted; but I thank Heaven that by coming +I shall be able to save an innocent woman from becoming the victim of +deeply-dyed villains. Your honor and the gentlemen of the jury do not +understand the French language, I perceive.” + +He paused a moment and lifted his eyes with a questioning glance to the +judge. + +“No,” that dignitary said, “they do not.” + +“Then”--and the scorn and indignation which rang out in Sir Charles +Herbert’s tones thrilled even Arley, though she did not know one word +that he was saying--“you cannot know all that the evidence of the fair +defendant yonder has been perverted and distorted in a way to make +her appear the vilest of women--in a way to criminate herself, so +that the jury could not possibly grant to her the least sympathy or +consideration. Listen, and I will show you what has been done.” + +Then, from a paper upon which he had taken notes, he read a brief +summary of the case, presenting Arley’s defense as she had given +it--her modest, straightforward replies having been worded in +an entirely different way from what had been represented by her +treacherous counsel--until both judge and jury looked grave and stern +at the fraud which had been perpetrated upon them, and grew to regard +the beautiful wronged woman before them in an entirely different light. + +“Now,” continued the young Englishman, after he had read the notes +he had taken, “I am myself a lawyer, and for the time being I will +constitute myself this young lady’s counsel, although I have never +exchanged a word with her, nor have I ever seen her before coming into +this room. I perceive that she is ignorant of Spanish and she does not +even know what I am saying before this court; but if your honor has +a desire to cross-question her further, I pledge my word that every +sentence shall be faithfully translated both to her and to you.” + +The face of the judge was black with wrath. + +His dignity had been insulted, his office outraged, by the shameless +trick which had been played upon him and the court, not to mention the +crime of attempting to ruin the character of a beautiful woman. + +He turned to Arley, and his stern face softened almost to tenderness; +but he proceeded to cross-question her again, as the young baronet had +proposed, he acting as interpreter. + +After one or two questions she began to look uneasy, and finally +lifting her proud head haughtily demanded of her new interrogator: + +“What does this mean?--why am I asked these questions twice over?” + +A brilliant smile wreathed Sir Charles’ lips at this query, but without +answering it, he turned directly to the judge, saying: + +“The señora is indignant--she does not understand why she is subjected +to this second cross-examination. Shall I explain to her?” + +“No,” his honor replied; “tell her to exercise a little patience, and +it shall be explained to her later.” + +He had seen Arley’s gesture, and knew by her tone that she had said +something of this kind, but he admired the honor of the Englishman for +telling her nothing without his sanction; it proved to him that he was, +as he had said, a stranger to her--that there was no conspiracy between +them, and that the young man was simply espousing the cause of truth +and right. + +A half hour was spent in going over old ground, and every word which +Arley uttered went to prove how she had been misrepresented; and at the +end of that time, the jury, without retiring, gave a unanimous verdict +against the plaintiff, who, with his counsel, felt as if they would +like the earth to open and swallow them, while Señor Proquelin skulked +out of sight, swearing vigorous Spanish oaths to himself--and then the +case was dismissed. + +Then Sir Charles Herbert went directly to Arley. Holding out his hand +to her with a frank, genial smile, he said in English: + +“I congratulate you, madam, upon the decision of the court, which is +wholly in your favor. But,” he added, seeing the tears spring to her +eyes, and that she was near losing her composure, “you came very nearly +having to suffer a foul wrong.” + +Then he explained to her how her evidence had been misconstrued and +falsified and made to tell against her. + +A crimson flush of shame and indignation shot up to the waves of brown +hair that lay upon her forehead, and bitter tears rolled down her +cheeks, as she listened, and understood something of the trap that had +been set for her unconscious feet. + +“I cannot be thankful enough,” Sir Charles said, in conclusion, “that +I was impelled to come into this court-room this morning--it has saved +you from becoming the victim of unprincipled men.” + +“You are an entire stranger to me,” Arley said, lifting a pair of +brimming, grateful eyes to his, “but I shall always feel that I owe you +a debt which I can never repay.” + +“Do not speak that way,” he returned, gently, “you owe me nothing; +I rejoice that I was here and able, by my knowledge of different +languages, to save you from a very unpleasant position. Allow me to +introduce myself, however, and to ask if I can be of any further +service to you?” + +He handed her a card as he spoke, and Arley read the name, Charles J. +Herbert, Bart., Allendale, Kent Co., England. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. + +THE LAST APPEAL. + + +“I am very glad to know you, Sir Charles,” Arley said, her eyes +lingering on the pleasant-sounding English name, while her heart +quickened its pulsations as she thought perhaps he might assist her +about going home, “and,” with a wistful look into his kind face, “I +should like to trespass upon your goodness still further, and ask if +you will help me to find some one who is about returning to England, +and who would be willing to grant me a little protection.” + +Sir Charles’ face lighted with pleasure at this request. “Would you +go with me?--with us, I should say, for my mother and I are traveling +together.” + +Arley’s heart bounded within her at this. + +Nothing could be better than for her to be under the protection of an +elderly lady, and this kind, noble young man who was her son. + +“If you would not mind being troubled with me, I should be very +grateful,” she returned, with quivering lips and tear-laden eyes. + +She tried to be brave through all that dreadful trial, but now the +prospect of going home, under safe protection, bade fair to unnerve her +completely. + +“Do not call it trouble,” he returned, gently, “it would give us great +pleasure to have you with us. We shall travel for three or four months +longer, and then return.” + +Arley’s face fell, and the fond hope which had animated her but a +moment before died within her. + +“I am afraid I cannot go with you, then,” she said, a vivid blush +dyeing all her face; “for I am obliged to be frank with you--I have not +the means to travel. I have barely enough to--to take me home.” + +Sir Charles looked embarrassed, even distressed at this acknowledgment. + +He would gladly have offered to defray all her expenses, but, being +such a stranger to her, he dare not; and he could see that she was very +proud--a lady through and through, who would be offended by such a +proposal. + +He thought a moment, then asked: + +“Would you object to the delay I have mentioned, if--if there were no +other obstacles?” + +“No,” Arley answered, with a sigh; “it does not matter much where +I am now. I have friends in London who would welcome me with open +arms, and though I long for them, yet I dread to meet them under the +circumstances. But necessity compels me to go somewhere--to get away +from this dreadful place, where I cannot understand anything that +is said to me; for--in the future I shall be obliged to earn my own +living.” + +She said it frankly, and yet with a little air of pride, as if, despite +her poverty, she was not ashamed to have him know it. + +“I am very glad that you have told me this, Mrs. Paxton,” her companion +said, eagerly, “for now I feel free to say that perhaps my mother can +help you, and you can also help her out of a serious difficulty. Her +companion--a fine young lady who accompanied us from England--was taken +violently ill at Lille, France, and the physicians who attended her +said that it would not do for her to resume travel with us--that just +as soon as she was sufficiently recovered she must be sent home and +have complete rest and freedom from excitement. It was a great trial to +my mother to be obliged to part with her, and, having been unable to +supply her place, she has been very lonely ever since. If--pardon me, I +mean it with all respect to you, and with the desire to contribute to +my mother’s comfort--if you could be persuaded to--to accept the vacant +position----” + +Poor Sir Charles! he knew he was talking to a refined and cultivated +lady; it was very hard to offer her a paid position, and he stammered +and stumbled dreadfully in his embarrassment. + +But Arley came quickly to his aid, her face flushing with gladness, her +eyes all alight with new hope, for here was a haven of refuge for her +at last. + +“Thank you, I should be only too glad to do so,” she said, eagerly; +“that is, if madam, your mother, would be satisfied with the +arrangement and my poor accomplishments.” + +“There will be no trouble about that, I assure you,” Sir Charles +replied, much relieved to find how sensibly she had received his +proposition. “Now, if you will please give me your address, I will +bring her to see you this afternoon, and you can arrange about our +departure from Madrid to suit yourselves.” + +Arley drew from her pocket a beautiful little card case of filigree +gold, and, taking a card from it, wrote the street and number of her +residence upon it, and gave it to him. + +“Thanks,” he said, thinking that she wrote the prettiest and most +delicate hand he ever saw. “Now will you allow me to see you safely +home?--for,” with a smile and a suspicious glance around, “I do not +like to leave you go alone, while you have so many enemies around you.” + +Arley gave him a quick, inquiring look. + +“I did not mean to alarm you,” he added, quickly; “but I suppose you +have heard that the Spaniards are exceedingly revengeful in their +disposition.” + +“Yes, I have heard it, but I had forgotten it,” Arley replied, looking +a trifle anxious. + +“I wish to make sure,” Sir Charles continued, “that you are not annoyed +by any one, so by your leave, I will go with you.” + +She was very glad to have him; but as they were passing out of the now +almost deserted court-room she saw Philip sitting in a dim corner, +looking moody and miserable. + +A feeling of pity for him stole into her heart. + +It seemed as if she could not leave him so--as if she must make one +last appeal to him. She might never see him again--it was very probable +that she would not--surely she might speak one word of entreaty and +farewell before she went out of his life forever. + +“Will you please excuse me one moment?” she asked, withdrawing her hand +from Sir Charles’ arm just as they reached the door, “I do not like to +go without one last word to Mr. Paxton--I will not keep you waiting +long.” + +“Certainly I will excuse you, and I shall not mind waiting as long as +you like,” he returned, kindly, and wondering, from the wistful sadness +of those lovely dark eyes, if she could still love the man who had that +day shown himself such a traitor and wretch. + +Philip had not seen her movements, he was so absorbed in his +disagreeable musings that he was not aware of her approach until a +gentle voice at his side said: + +“Philip!” + +Her lips had seldom spoken that name since their marriage, and the +sound of it smote him with a keen pain. + +But it was only for an instant--the next he turned upon her with a +malignant scowl. + +She shivered and shrank from him slightly, yet looking so gentle and +lovely that his features involuntarily relaxed. + +“Well?” he questioned briefly. + +“I just wished to say to you,” Arley said, in a hesitating tone, “that +I cannot understand why you should have taken this action against +me--if you wish to be free I am sorry that you cannot be, but I could +not remain silent and allow my character to be defamed, else I should +never have appeared against you. I am going away--back to England.” + +He started, and flashed a strange look at her as she said this, but she +did not appear to notice it. + +“I shall go back to Aunt Angeline, and I shall have to tell her why I +came back; but further than that I shall say nothing. I shall never +seek to see you--I shall never meet you if I can help it, and then in +time, if you wish, the law will free you and there need be no publicity +about it. But,” and her sweet lips quivered painfully, “I wish our life +could have been different--I would have been glad to share almost any +lot with you, if you had met your reverses bravely and honorably--I +would have been a faithful wife to you--you know that, for I told you +so before--for, I did love you very dearly, Philip. + +“I do not believe,” Arley went on, eagerly, “that you are acting your +true nature. I do not believe that my heart would have been drawn +toward you as it was at Hazelmere if there had not been something +lovable and honorable in you to call forth my affection. I know you +have been bitterly disappointed, and I have grieved more on your +account than my own that I was obliged to come to you penniless; but +the loss of money is such a little thing compared to that of one’s +honor and self-respect. Oh, if I could only make you see how much +nobler and better it would be to begin again ever so low socially, +with the determination to rise--and with health and ability any one +can rise, if he will--than to live as you have been living since our +marriage! Do not waste your life thus; be the true-hearted man that I +believed you when I first knew you, Philip, will you? Will you go back +to England with me?” + +How could he resist such a gentle, earnest pleading? How could he help +yielding to that sweet-voiced entreaty? + +Who can tell how he longed to do so--how, perhaps, he had all but +surrendered, when the devil in his heart whispered: “The Lily of +Mordaunt has twenty thousand pounds a year, and Wil Hamilton is dead?” + +“No,” he said, briefly and sullenly, and turned restlessly away from +those tenderly inviting eyes. + +A deep sigh fell upon his ear, and it smote him like a blow; but he +stubbornly crushed down every better feeling, though afterward he +remembered that he was very near yielding as the hopeless sound struck +him, and then, with bitter remorse, he cried out: + +“Oh, why--why was I so blind and hardened that I would not heed her?” + +“Good-by, then, Philip,” and there was a wistful sadness in the sweet +voice. “I suppose our paths will widely diverge after this, and we +shall never meet again, save, perhaps as strangers meet. But I pray +you--I beseech you,” she added, with passionate earnestness, “do +not live out your whole life as you are living now; do not let your +existence prove a failure; do not wreck the mind, do not ruin the +soul which has been given you; for, some day, you know, they will be +required of you again. I am a woman; I have lost everything--name and +fortune--and now this added blight which you have cast upon me presses +me down still more heavily; but”--and now the lovely girl lifted +her head with an air of pride and resolution--“I am going to battle +against these adverse circumstances with all my might. I am going to +make the most and very best of myself. I will not be crushed--I do not +believe God means me to be crushed; so, with His help, I shall rise +above my troubles; and if, in the future, we should chance to meet +again, Philip, I will show you what a woman, preserving her truth and +self-respect, can accomplish.” + +This was uttered with nothing of arrogance or self-assertion, but +with a sort of earnest faith, as if a glimpse had been granted to her +through the present darkness of a more hopeful beyond. + +She paused a moment and drew off her glove; then added: + +“I wish to return this to you. I do not feel that I can wear it +any longer; but whenever you chance to look at it, I trust it will +remind you that it once bound you to one who would have been glad to +prove loyal to the vows to which it was a seal, had you not made it +impossible.” + +She had drawn off her wedding ring while she was speaking, and now laid +it down upon the table by which he sat; then turning, she went slowly +back to where Sir Charles Herbert stood waiting for her. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. + +A FRIEND IN NEED. + + +Sir Charles’ kind heart ached for the fair, beautiful woman who +had just taken leave of the man who should have interposed himself +between her and all evil, instead of trying to crush her and blast her +reputation. + +She was pale and very sad when she returned to him; her lovely mouth +wore a grieved expression, and her eyes an almost hopeless look. + +He refrained from speaking to her, but offering her his arm, they +passed out of the court-room in silence, nor did he leave her until he +had conducted her safely to her own door. + +“Mrs. Paxton,” he then said, “I am going directly for my mother, and +we will take you under our protection immediately. These Spaniards are +a treacherous, revengeful set, and you have already been the victim of +such miserable plots, that I do not like to leave you alone another +hour. Have you any business outside which needs attention?” + +“No,” Arley said, “there is nothing to detain me.” + +“Then may I ask you to pack your trunks, and be ready to go away with +us when we come for you?” + +She promised, and he went away with a quick, eager step. + +He was back in an hour, and his mother with him. + +Lady Herbert was a sweet-faced little woman of about fifty, with a +fair, almost girlish complexion, dark, kind eyes, a low, rich voice, +and a smile which won Arley’s heart at once. + +“My dear, Charles has told me of your trouble,” was her greeting, as +she took Arley warmly by the hand, then drawing her gently toward her, +she kissed her softly on the cheek, for the girl’s loveliness took her +heart by storm. + +Arley’s lips trembled at the tender, compassionate tone, and if Sir +Charles had not been present, she would have bowed her head upon that +motherly shoulder and sobbed out all her sorrows to her sympathizing +ear. + +“I think with him,” Lady Herbert continued, seeing that Arley was near +losing her composure, “that we must take you away immediately; will you +come and travel with us for a few months before going back to England?” + +“You are very kind, madam,” Arley replied, “and I will gladly do so if +I can be useful to you--I could not consent to be a burden.” + +The pretty matron laughed such a sweet, rare laugh at this. + +“A burden, dear,” she said, “I should not allow you to be such--you +have yet to learn what an exacting little body I am, and I promise you +that I shall see that you are kept busy from dawn to twilight.” + +“You are very kind,” said Arley. + +But Lady Herbert interrupted her half-completed sentence. + +“You overestimate the kindness, as you term it, my dear,” she said. “I +cannot tell you how lonely I have been since Miss Preble left me. I +believe I should have given up our trip and insisted upon going home if +Charlie had not run across you. He is very nice and kind, and tries to +see that I have every comfort”--this with a fond glance at her idolized +son--“but he is a man, and cannot understand all the little notions +of a fussy old woman. Ah! I see you mean to come,” she continued, as +her roving glance rested on Arley’s trunks, packed and ready to be +strapped. “Charlie, won’t you attend to Mrs. Paxton’s luggage, while I +call up her landlady to settle?” + +Arley colored and laughed. + +“There is no need for that,” she said, “for she is paid. Your son +requested me to be ready to go away when he returned, and I have obeyed +him literally. Please accept it as an omen of my future loyalty to +yourself.” + +“That is a good child,” madam remarked, more and more delighted with +her acquisition, and she emphasized her words with an affectionate +little pat upon her shoulder. + +“Then I do not see, Charlie, but we are ready to go,” she added, to +her son. “We will have the coach take us to our hotel, then carry Mrs. +Paxton’s trunks to the station, while she helps me pack my own. We have +thought best,” she explained to Arley, “to leave Madrid to-night.” + +Arley felt like a different being as she took her seat beside Lady +Herbert in the coach; a great burden rolled from her heart. + +She drove with Sir Charles and his mother to their hotel, where she +helped them pack their large trunks, and a busy time they had of it to +get ready for the evening train. + +Evening found the Herbert party _en route_ for Toulouse, whence they +were to go to spend the remainder of the summer among the Alps. + + + + +CHAPTER XXV. + +PHILIP PAXTON’S RETURN. + + +For a time we must leave our fair wanderer, and go back to our friends +at Hazelmere. + +Poor Lady Elaine!--sweet but heart-broken Lily of Mordaunt--to her, +also, it seemed as if “hope was dead, and life was vain.” + +She could not at first believe the terrible news that had come to them +from across the broad Atlantic; she could not believe that Wil--tender, +noble Wil Hamilton--was dead; was lying cold and mangled, upon the +cruel rocks of some far-away abyss, or, worse yet, his crushed and +bruised body devoured by some ravenous beast of the forest. + +For many days she lay upon her bed, her head covered, her hands pressed +tightly over her eyes, as if to shut out some horrible sight, or the +fierce growling of the greedy beast, which, gloating over its prey, +had, she believed, dragged her loved one to its lair and devoured him, +thus literally wiping out every trace of him from the face of the earth. + +It seemed as if she could not live and bear it--as if she had neither +strength nor inclination ever to rise again and battle with her misery. + +But when she began to realize how crushed and broken poor Sir Anthony +was, with all his fondest hopes blasted by the loss of his only son and +heir; when she looked into that heart-broken mother’s agonized face, +she felt as if a great duty lay before her, as if it belonged to her +to put aside her own bitter grieving, and devote herself to them, and +strive, in some measure, to fill the place of the dear one whom they +had lost. + +And so she meekly took up this cross--it was no light one either--and, +little by little, she won those wretched parents from the hopeless +despair that seemed likely to unsettle their reason. + +She won them to listen to her while she read to them; she coaxed them +to drive or walk with her; to play at chess or backgammon, and sought +by every possible device to keep them occupied and interested, so that +they need not continually brood over and rebel against the ways of One +who gives, and who has a right also to take. + +Thus the months went by until the anniversary of Arley’s marriage came +around. + +Lady Elaine had not heard from her for a long time--not since she had +written her letter of condolence upon learning of their sad bereavement +at Hazelmere, and was ignorant of her whereabouts at the present time. +She had never felt very confident of Arley’s happiness, and less so +during the last few months, for there had been a restraint wholly +unnatural to her in her letters. + +Arley had, indeed, been very reserved, never alluding in the slightest +way to her troubles, nor referring to her straitened circumstances. Her +epistles were mostly descriptive of the places which she visited and +the interesting things she saw, while she always aimed to write in a +cheerful strain, for she dreaded to have her friends even suspect that +her marriage had been such a miserable failure. + +But, in spite of her assumed cheerfulness, and the often humorous +strain of her letters, Lady Elaine mistrusted that all was not well +with her. She never mentioned her husband, and no happy wife would be +guilty of such an omission as this, she thought, while she had no faith +whatever in Philip Paxton. + +Another reason for this fear and uneasiness, was in their protracted +sojourn. They had intended at first being absent only three or four +months, and now a year had elapsed, and nothing was said about their +return; and taking into consideration Arley’s loss of fortune and +Philip’s unfortunate speculations, which Wil had confided to her, she +felt quite sure that something was very wrong. + +Late in November it became necessary for Sir Anthony to go up to London +for a month or so on business. He could not make up his mind to go +alone; he clung to his wife now almost as a child clings to its mother, +while Lady Elaine had become a sort of necessity to them both--so he +insisted upon their going as a family. + +They took rooms at the Langham, for they all shrank from occupying +their town house, since every room contained so much to remind them of +poor, lost Wil, and would only serve to open their wounds afresh. + +One day Lady Hamilton and Lady Elaine drove out to Kew Garden, just +for the ride, for they could not give up their customary exercise even +though they were in that dense city. + +On their return, Lady Hamilton passed into the hotel, while Lady Elaine +remained behind to settle with their driver. + +It took some little time to make the change and arrange for another +drive the following day; but at length it was all settled, and Lady +Elaine turned to follow her companion. + +Just as she entered the vestibule she encountered a gentleman, but +would have passed him unnoticed, if he had not raised his hat and bowed +to her. + +Then she raised her eyes, with an inquiring look, and saw Philip Paxton +gazing down upon her. + +“Mr. Paxton,” she cried, in surprise, while her face lighted with +pleasure; for she thought as he had returned, Arley of course had come +with him, and their former friendship would be renewed. + +He, however, mistook her look and tone as indicating her pleasure at +seeing him, and, holding out his hand, he greeted her most cordially. + +She seemed more lovely than ever to him, though her face was very sad, +and worn, and pale, while of course her deep mourning added to the +delicacy of her complexion. + +He had not thought of seeing her in black, and it gave him an +uncomfortable sensation; it reminded him unpleasantly of Wil, and his +treachery toward him, and it is never agreeable to be obliged to recall +one’s own meanness. + +“When did you return?” Lady Elaine inquired, reading his face with +clear, keen eyes, and finding there something to dislike more than ever. + +“Last week,” he answered. + +“And Arley--your wife?” + +“I have no wife,” he returned, briefly, and with darkening face. + +“Mr. Paxton! Surely Arley has not died, and the sad news kept from me!” +cried the fair girl, in a breathless tone, and putting out her hand to +steady herself against the wall. + +“No, she is living, and is well--or was, the last I knew,” Philip said, +while his own lips were not quite steady, “but--Lady Elaine, there has +been a--a separation.” + +His companion gave him another glance of surprise, mingled with horror. + +She was too deeply moved--too astounded to speak one word in reply to +this dreadful intelligence. + +“You look surprised,” Philip said, feeling very uncomfortable beneath +those searching blue eyes, “and I do not wonder; we have had a sad +time since leaving England, but--I do not like to speak of it here,” +he added, glancing around as if he feared that some one might overhear +them. “May I come and tell you about it this evening?” + +“Yes, you may come,” Lady Elaine returned, and then with a dazed, +wondering look on her fair face, she bowed, left him, and went up to +her room. + +“What can it mean, and where is my poor Arley?” she asked herself, over +and over again. + +Philip Paxton was well pleased with the permission she had given +him. She had granted it unhesitatingly, and he accepted it as a good +omen, while the expression of pleasure with which she had greeted him +lingered in his memory all day. + +He had learned almost immediately upon his return that the Hamiltons +were at the Langham, and Lady Elaine with them, and he had haunted the +place every day, hoping to encounter Sir Anthony, and get an invitation +to call, as he had not quite courage sufficient to do so without one. + +He presented himself at the door on this evening as early as etiquette +would permit, and was delighted to find Lady Elaine alone. + +“A great sorrow has come to you since I last saw you,” he said, as he +greeted her, and holding her hand a moment longer than was necessary, +while he looked down into her eyes with an expression of tender respect +and sympathy. + +She drew back from him, lines of pain settling about her sweet mouth, +her face growing almost ghastly with the effort she made for composure. +She merely bowed her head in token of assent; her grief was still too +fresh to admit of her speaking of Wil with any degree of calmness, +while she felt that she could not discuss her sorrow with him under any +circumstances. + +She motioned him to a seat, and then sat down near him. + +“Where did you leave Arley?” she asked, anxious to learn the fate of +her friend. + +“I did not leave her at all--she left me at Madrid, Spain, and I have +not seen her since,” he answered, with compressed lips. + +Lady Elaine lifted her bright head with a quick, almost impatient +motion at this, and bent a keen, inquiring glance upon him, as if to +warn him that she did not mean to believe anything wrong of her friend +if she could help it. + +“Arley and I were never suited to each other,” Philip resumed, with a +regretful sigh, “and it was a great mistake that we were ever married. +We both found that out before a month had passed.” + +“Why did Arley leave you?” Lady Elaine asked, with those penetrating +eyes still fixed upon his face. + +It was exceeding uncomfortable; he wished she would not look at him so, +it made it very difficult for him to tell his story in the way he had +planned to. + +“Because”--he hesitated as if pained and embarrassed to be obliged to +speak of Arley in any such way, “because of my poverty. Perhaps you +do not know that I lost very heavily about the time of our marriage, +but such is the fact, and that misfortune, together with the loss of +Arley’s money, made things very awkward for me. Of course, crippled as +I was, I could not afford to give her all the luxuries to which she had +been accustomed, nor gratify every extravagant whim. We had some words +about it in Paris first, and matters grew worse and worse until they +finally reached a climax in Madrid. There she utterly refused to live +with me in the way we were living, and left me in a passion.” + +Still Lady Elaine’s eyes rested upon his face, as if she doubted his +false tongue and longed to read the hidden secrets of his heart. + +“Pray how could such a step improve her condition, if she had no means +of her own to live upon?” she asked. + +“You are her friend. I do not like to pain you by talking against her, +especially when she is absent, and cannot defend herself,” Philip +returned, with an appearance of honor, though he averted his guilty +eyes and a dark flush mounted his brow. “Perhaps,” he added, after a +pause, “I had better leave all explanations until she returns--if she +ever does. I can only say that she conducted herself in such a manner +that I felt justified in applying to the court of Madrid for a divorce.” + +“Mr. Paxton! did you do that?” Lady Elaine asked, her eyes beginning to +flash. + +“I did,” he replied, firmly, “and Arley, I afterward discovered, left +Madrid the very day that the court rendered its verdict, and in company +with a young Englishman who had acted as her companion in the case, and +with whom she was upon terms of intimacy.” + +“But what did she do that you should feel justified in adopting such +extreme measures?” Lady Elaine persisted in a constrained tone, while a +small red spot began to burn upon either cheek. + +“She deserted me in the first place, and then upon watching her I +discovered that she made appointments with a person in Madrid, and +received money from him--you asked how she procured means for her +support--while her intimacy with this Englishman capped the climax.” + +Lady Elaine arose; she would listen to nothing more. + +“Mr. Paxton,” she began, coldly, “I believe I know Arley more +intimately than almost any one else, for a very tender friendship +sprang up between us while we were at Hazelmere; but, in spite of your +apparently criminating facts, I cannot believe her to be guilty of +the wrong of which you accuse her. I know that Arley was true to the +core--that she was pure and honorable in every thought; I know, too, +that she loved you, with a deep and tender love, at the time of your +marriage--she confessed it to me when I questioned her, fearing for her +happiness.” + +“Fearing for her happiness!” interrupted Philip, with well-assumed +surprise, though he knew well enough what she meant. + +“Yes, after what had passed between you and me,” Lady Elaine went on, +with burning cheeks, “and then learning of your pecuniary troubles, I +could not help attributing an unworthy motive to you when you sought +an engagement with Arley so soon. So I questioned her very earnestly, +and had she not betrayed so deep and unmistakable an affection for you, +I should have felt it my duty to tell her of your previous proposals +to me, for I loved her too dearly to be willing that she should be won +just for her money.” + +“Lady Elaine! surely you cannot mean to imply that I----” Philip began +in an indignant tone, but she stopped him with a motion of her hand, +while her lips curled slightly, as she continued: + +“There is an old saying that ‘a man is supposed to be innocent until +he is proven guilty.’ What you have told me about Arley is dreadful, +but it is simply impossible for me to believe her to be anything save +a good and noble woman, without more positive proof than you bring +me. The very fact of the stand which she took regarding Ina Wentworth +and the fortune which she had always believed to be hers, goes to +show how sensitive she was about committing any wrong--how strictly +conscientious she was upon every point, and I cannot think that she +would prove false to her solemn vows to you. Mr. Paxton, I am afraid +you have done Arley a great wrong by obtaining this divorce.” + +Philip Paxton’s eyes flashed beneath his drooping lids. + +He had intended to convey the impression, if he could do so, without +telling a downright falsehood, that he had succeeded in obtaining a +divorce, and it seemed that she had understood it so. + +He had been fearfully disappointed and angry at failing in this scheme, +and if ever a poor man was heartily cursed, Sir Charles Herbert had +been for his interference, though Philip had no idea who he was. + +He had not wished to bring the matter into English courts on account +of the scandal which it would create, but there was no help for it +now, if he desired to be free; and he had determined to set about it +immediately, and while the suit was pending he meant to make the most +of his time and win Lady Elaine if possible, although her attitude +toward him, in this his first interview with her, was anything but +encouraging. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI. + +JANE COLLINS AT HOME. + + +“I suppose I must bear your mistrust and displeasure, my lady, as best +I can, since I have no means beyond my simple word, of proving my +assertions,” Philip replied, with an assumption of proud humility, to +Lady Elaine’s warmly-avowed confidence in Arley. + +“Perhaps,” he added, “you might not be quite so skeptical regarding +what I have told you if you should write to the woman with whom Arley +lodged, or the lawyer whom she employed; I could give you the addresses +of both. It is a great grief for me, Lady Elaine, to forfeit, in any +degree, your esteem; for--for you must bear in mind that although I +was attracted by Arley’s beauty and vivacity, yet it was not she who +won the firm, warm passion of my heart.” + +Lady Elaine made a gesture of displeasure at this artful insinuation, +and the crimson surged hotly over her face. + +“But she was your wife. You had promised to love, honor and protect +her as long as you should live, and I cannot--cannot believe she could +have been so false to her vows to you and to herself. Something which +I do not understand must have occurred to work a radical change in her +feelings in order to make her leave you. I believe you are mistaken +regarding what you have told me about her unfaithfulness--a feeling of +jealousy may have blinded you--Arley was so true and noble by nature,” +Lady Elaine argued, very earnestly. + +“No, I have not been mistaken,” Philip steadily replied. “She told me, +out and out, that she would not live with me another day, and packed +her trunks and went away to a lodging which she had hired without my +knowledge. Then I witnessed a secret meeting between her and a man +residing in Madrid, and I know that she took money from him; but that +last act--leaving the place with that Englishman--was worst of all. +Can you, even you, who love her so well, find any excuse for such a +proceeding?” + +Lady Elaine looked deeply troubled. + +Surely Arley’s conduct did appear reprehensible, if things were just as +he had stated them, of which she had grave doubts. + +“Who was this Englishman?” she asked. + +“I do not know. I never saw him until he suddenly appeared in court and +argued her case for her; and when, after the decision was rendered, I +commissioned her lawyer to go to her and ascertain if there was any +service which I could perform for her, supposing her comparatively +helpless as to the means of returning to England, he was told that she +had left that afternoon with him, taking everything with her.” + +“I do not like to do you injustice, Mr. Paxton,” Lady Elaine said, +after a long and thoughtful pause, “but I cannot pass judgment upon her +until I have seen and talked with her.” + +“If,” she added to herself, “she did really leave Philip Paxton, I +believe she had some good reason for doing so; my faith in her is +stronger than it is in him, and I do not credit this story about the +young Englishman at all. Arley would never dishonor herself.” + +She showed so plainly that she wished the interview to end that Philip +arose to go, feeling, however, that he had not accomplished very much +in this first meeting. + +“Do you remain in town long?” he asked. + +“About a month, I believe.” + +“Then I shall hope to see more of you; I beg to be remembered to Sir +Anthony and Lady Hamilton, and if there is any way in which I can serve +either of you, I hope you will allow me to do so.” + +Lady Elaine politely bowed her thanks, but did not promise to avail +herself of his offer; then he bade her “good-night” and took his +departure. + +Lady Elaine sat down the moment the door closed after her visitor, and +indulged in a flood of tears for her absent and unhappy friend--she +knew she must be that under any circumstances. + +She was greatly distressed, for everything looked very dark regarding +Arley’s strange proceedings, at least as they had been related to her, +and though she could not, and would not, believe all Philip Paxton’s +statements, yet there was very much about the affair that seemed +unaccountable. + +She did not mention a word of this to Sir Anthony or his wife--did not +even tell them of Mr. Paxton’s return, as she knew that disagreeable +inquiries regarding his wife would follow; but the next day she went +alone to call upon Miss McAllister and Ina Wentworth, hoping to learn +something of her friend from them. + +Both welcomed her very cordially and thought it exceedingly kind of her +to come to them, when they knew of course that she went out so little. + +In the course of their conversation, she inquired when they had heard +last from Arley. She asked the question in a general way, for if they +knew nothing of the poor girl’s trouble she had no intention of telling +them what she had learned, believing that Arley herself was the proper +one to do so. + +They had received a letter from her only last week, Miss McAllister +said, and she appeared to be in much better spirits than when she had +last written. They had left Madrid, she wrote, and Philip had gone +another way for a time, while she was to travel with some acquaintances +whom she had made--a Lady Herbert and her son, Sir Charles. She spoke +of them both in the highest terms, particularly of the former, who, she +said, had shown her great kindness. + +She had closed her letter by saying that they should probably travel +four or five months longer before returning to England. + +Miss McAllister remarked that she had felt very much relieved upon +receiving this letter, for she had imagined Arley as being very unhappy +in Madrid, by a word which she now and then dropped; but she seemed to +be enjoying so much now, and was visiting so many delightful places, +of which her letter was full, that she felt quite comfortable about +her, although she “did long to see the dear child more than she could +express.” + +Lady Elaine went away both relieved and disturbed--relieved to know +where she was, her letter had been written at Turin, on the way to +the southern part of Italy, where they were to remain during the cold +months--and disturbed to find a portion, at least, of Philip Paxton’s +story confirmed. + +Although the Anthonys did not go into company at all, on account of +their bereavement, yet Philip Paxton contrived to meet them a great +many times during the next few weeks. + +While Sir Anthony was occupied with business, his wife and Lady Elaine +spent the time driving and visiting points of interest. Thus Philip, +always on the watch, often ran across them, as if by chance, and +managed to render them some little attention, which made them remember +him. + +The first time Lady Hamilton met him she had, after greeting him most +cordially--for had he not been the friend of her dear son?--inquired +most kindly after Arley. + +Philip shot a quick glance at Lady Elaine, and knew that she had said +nothing regarding their interview to her friends, and so he replied +in an offhand manner that she was well the last he knew, but was +still traveling with friends, and he was home again to look after his +business interests. + +“It does not do for a man to play all the time,” he concluded, with a +genial smile which he knew so well how to assume; “he must look after +the stern realities of life somewhat.” + +“True,” Lady Hamilton returned, unsuspectingly; “but it must be quite +lonely for you. When will Arley return?” + +“Her return is indefinite; it will depend somewhat upon circumstances, +I suppose,” he said, and then turned the subject, while Lady Elaine +regarded him with more respect than she had ever entertained for him; +for, as she believed, trying thus to shield Arley’s good name until she +should return and be able to defend herself. + +It became a thing of frequent occurrence after that for him to spend +the evening at the Langham, in Sir Anthony’s handsome parlors, and he +was thus thrown much into Lady Elaine’s society. + +He conducted himself with the greatest decorum, however, and though +Lady Elaine still retained much of her former prejudice against him, +yet she could find no fault with his manner and bearing whenever he was +in her presence. + +Thus three months slipped rapidly away, and Philip fondly imagined +himself to be gaining ground, slowly but surely, with the beautiful +heiress. + +Sir Anthony had been detained in London far beyond the time he had +expected by his business, which had proved more complicated and +troublesome than he had anticipated; but being very comfortable at +the Langham, and seeing that his wife appeared to brood less over her +sorrow there in the busy city with so much to interest and entertain +her, he thought it much better to be there than at Hazelmere, where +during the cold weather they were shut indoors with little to occupy +them. + +One day Lady Elaine went out into the park for a quiet walk by herself. + +Suddenly a shrill cry startled her, and, glancing back, she saw that a +woman had been thrown down in the street by a passing wagon. + +A crowd of curious men and boys immediately gathered around the +unfortunate creature, but not one of her sex went near to speak a word +of cheer or sympathy for her. + +Lady Elaine looked in dismay at the rough crowd; she shrank from coming +in contact with them, but her kind heart prompted her to at least +manifest something of her compassion, and with a resolute air she +went straight to the side of the sufferer, who proved to be a large, +ruddy-faced woman, plainly but neatly clad. + +The uncouth mob drew back somewhat at the appearance of a “real lady,” +and, bending over the prostrate woman, Lady Elaine asked, in a gentle +tone: + +“Are you very badly hurt, my poor woman?” + +The sufferer looked up gratefully at the sound of that sweet voice. + +“Ah, leddy, I’m afraid my leg is broken,” she said, trying to speak +bravely; but her white lips and the distressed look upon her face told +that she was suffering extremely. + +“Is it so bad as that?” Lady Elaine asked, regretfully. “What can I +do for you?--do you live in the city, and would you like to be taken +directly home, or sent to some good hospital?” + +“No, not to the hospital,” was the quick, shrinking reply. “I live in +Warwick street--number one forty-eight, leddy, and if you would kindly +order a cab for me----” + +“Go and get the roomiest carriage that you can find,” commanded Lady +Elaine, turning promptly to a man behind her, and not waiting to have +the sentence finished. + +“Yes, mum,” was the respectful reply, while the man pulled at the +straggling forelock which stuck through the brim of his ragged hat, and +then darted away to do her bidding. + +Then our fair Lily of Mordaunt turned again to the sufferer, and with +her own soft, perfumed handkerchief, wiped away the cold drops that +stood on her forehead and about her mouth, showing something of the +agony which she endured. + +They had not long to wait for a carriage, and when it drew up beside +them, Lady Elaine gave directions about the arrangement of the cushions +to make her comfortable, and ordered that she be carefully lifted and +laid upon them. + +Then she entered the carriage and seated herself opposite the woman. + +“I am going home with you,” she said, in reply to the look of inquiry +which she turned upon her, and the satisfied expression which settled +over the anxious face more than repaid her for the bold step which she +was taking. + +Before starting, however, Lady Elaine turned again to the man who had +procured the carriage for her, and asked: + +“Do you know where Sir John Seymour lives?” + +“The great surgeon, yer leddyship?” he questioned. + +“Yes.” + +“Yes, leddy, I knows.” + +“Very well; I want you to take this card to him from me.” + +She wrote rapidly upon the back of one of her visiting cards the name +and number of the street where she was going, asking the great man to +come there immediately; then giving it to the man, with a piece of +gold, told him to make all possible haste about his errand. + +Then she bade the coachman drive to No. 148 Warwick street. It +was a hard ride for that poor creature over the rough stones; but +Warwick street was reached at last, and No. 148 proved to be a very +respectable, though unpretentious abode. + +A rough, though kind-visaged man made his appearance at the door as +the grand carriage stopped before it, while his mouth--a capacious +one, too--and eyes were extended wide with wonder and curiosity at the +unusual circumstance. + +“Is this your home?” Lady Elaine asked him, putting her head out of the +window. + +“Yes, mum; and if ’tis John Collins ye want, I’m yer man,” was the +hearty, good-natured response. + +“Yes, John, it’s you we want, and ye’ll have to lend a hand to help +me out of this,” said Jane Collins--for it is our old friend--with an +attempt at cheeriness, though there was a ring of pain beneath it, +which her husband’s quick ear detected at once. + +“Jane!” he cried, in a startled voice, and, springing forward to the +coach, into which he peered with a blanched and anxious face. + +“Your wife has met with an accident,” Lady Elaine said, gently. “I +hope, however, that it is nothing so serious but that time and patience +will mend it.” + +“Jane, what has happened to ye, my lass?” he demanded, never heeding +the young countess in his anxiety, but speaking in a tone as tender and +tremulous as a woman’s. + +“I got run down by a team, John, and my leg is hurt; but”--as she saw +his lips quiver--“never ye fear, man; time and patience will mend it, +as the leddy says.” + +She spoke bravely, but was obliged to clench her hands to keep back the +groans that were almost forcing their way from her lips. + +“Now help me in the best way ye can, and we’ll get ready for the +doctor,” she added, after a moment, and drawing herself up as well as +she could, though a cry burst from her in spite of her efforts to make +no sign of pain. + +“Oh, lass, lass! it’s a bad day when anything happens to ye,” +pathetically cried her husband, as, assisted by the coachman, he lifted +her from the carriage and bore her into the house and laid her upon +her own bed in a room as daintily clean and as neatly arranged as any +high-born lady’s could be. + +Lady Elaine was surprised at the evidence of refinement in that little +home, which contrasted so strangely with the rough exterior of its +owners. + +She assisted Jane in the removal of her clothing and the necessary +preparations for the surgeon, and told her that she would remain until +he came, since he was a friend of hers, while, besides, she could not +think of leaving her with no woman to care for her comfort. + +Jane was very grateful for this kindness, but her sufferings appeared +to increase with every moment, while her injured limb was found to be +frightfully bruised and swollen, as well as broken. + +In less than half an hour after their own arrival Sir John Seymour made +his appearance, and then there followed a season of terrible agony, +during which strong, stout-hearted Jane Collins fainted for the first +time in her life, while her husband, hanging over her in torturing +suspense, was as helpless as a child. + +Lady Elaine, her face like marble, alone rendered the surgeon what +assistance he needed, waiting upon him quickly, calmly, and quietly, +uttering never a word, but with her keen perception often anticipating +his wants. + +But it was all over at last, the broken limb was nicely splintered and +bandaged, and Jane (exhausted, but so thankful that it was over), made +as comfortable as possible under the circumstances. + +“Do you know of an efficient person who could be procured to take care +of you while you are obliged to lie here?” Lady Elaine asked of Jane, +as she was preparing to return to her hotel. + +The surgeon had been gone some time, but she was reluctant to leave the +patient until she was satisfied that she was perfectly comfortable. + +“Yes, there’s a woman across the way--Maria Stevens, she’s called. She +goes out nursin’, but I reckon John’ll do well enough--he’s ’mazin’ +handy about the house,” Jane replied, with an affectionate glance at +her burly husband. + +“I’m ready to do the best I can, but p’raps that ain’t the best ye +oughter have, Jane,” honest John answered, as he tenderly smoothed his +wife’s hair with an unsteady hand. + +The sight of her suffering had “taken more stock out of him than the +stiffest gale that ever blowed around Cape Horn,” as he afterward said. + +“I think it would be better to have a regular nurse,” Lady Elaine said, +with quiet decision. + +“That settles it, yer leddyship; I’ll hev Maria here inside half an +hour,” was John’s quick rejoinder. + +“I shall come and see you again to-morrow, and shall hope to find you +at least as comfortable as you are now,” the young countess said, +kindly, as she took her leave, and, with many thanks for her kindness, +both Jane and John bade her good-night, wondering how a “great leddy +could stop to show such favors to them.” + +Their experience with the nobility, as a class, had been such as to +lead them to regard them as selfish and devoid of all feeling for every +one outside the pale of their own hallowed circle. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII. + +THE TRUTH TOLD. + + +True to her promise, Lady Elaine went the next day to see her +_protegee_, if such Jane Collins could be called; and she continued her +visits to her as long as she was an invalid, always carrying her some +little delicacy in the way of fruit, flowers, jellies, etc., and was +herself so gracious and winning and sympathetic that the woman came to +long and watch eagerly for her coming. + +One day she went to her a little earlier than usual, taking as her +offering some great, luscious oranges. She had already carried her all +kinds of fruit, but this afternoon she had seen these unusually fine +ones, and their fair, golden beauty had tempted her to buy them more +than anything else. + +As she passed the basket to Jane, upon her entrance to her room, she +took one, and, after looking at it a moment, said, with a sigh: + +“I never see an orange, my leddy, but I think of a poor, young thing, +sick and friendless, who I took care of in Madrid last summer.” + +“Madrid?” exclaimed Lady Elaine, her heart leaping into her throat at +the name. “Were you in Madrid last summer?” + +“Yes, my leddy, and my heart aches every time I think of that poor +dear, for I had to leave her before she began to mend in that heathen +country, and she couldn’t speak a word of their gibberish. I’d give +much to know that she got well, and is all right again.” + +“Was she English?” Lady Elaine asked, much interested, and with a +little nervous tremor. + +“That she was, and just a sweet little body, too; but she were dreadful +sick, and used to beg for oranges like a thirsty child for water. +Many’s the one I’ve held to her mouth and squeezed the cool juice +between her burnin’ lips. She was such a young thing, too, to be +neglected by her wretch of a husband!” + +“Husband! What! was she married?--and neglected when she was ill?” +cried Lady Elaine, beginning to lose color at this point of the story. + +“Yes, leddy. It’s a sad story. The pretty child left England a bride +and went traveling from place to place with her husband, who seemed to +have a grudge against her for something, and wouldn’t let her go home, +though she often begged him to take her back. When they got to Madrid +their money gave out entirely, and he couldn’t pay their bills. Then he +got reckless, and didn’t care, and he wouldn’t work nor try to support +her. She didn’t tell me all this, yer leddyship; I found out a good +deal when she was ravin’ with the fever. When she found that his money +was gone, she said she couldn’t live so, and if he wouldn’t work to +take care of her, she must do something to support herself. So she went +away from him into cheaper lodgings, and went to drawin’ and paintin’ +pictures to earn the bread she ate. She had some money that her aunt +gave her for a weddin’ present, but she were savin’ it to pay her +passage back to England as soon as she could find some one to go with; +and one day, when she went to see the consul to get him to put her in +somebody’s care, a thief broke into her room and stole all her jewels +and money. The shock and a sudden cold that she took threw her into a +dreadful fever, and she was at the sickest when I had to leave her.” + +“That was hard. But how did you happen to be with her at all?” asked +her listener. + +“Well, ye see, John and I’ve been seafaring people all our lives. He’s +worked up from a common sailor to mate, and I’ve always gone along +with him as stewardess. This time we sailed aboard the _Rocket_, bound +from London to Valencia for fruits, and just before we entered port +at Valencia, on this voyage, John saved the cap’n’s life, and so, +when we landed, he told us we should have a holiday, and go where we +liked while the vessel was being loaded up. We thought we’d like to +travel about a bit, and we went up to Madrid for a look at the city, +and one day we thought we’d go and pay our respects to the English +consul. While we were waitin’ to see him, this pretty young thing +comes into the waitin’-room and sets right down in front of us. I was +that startled when I see her that I thought my heart would jump out of +my mouth, for she was the perfect image of a beautiful leddy that we +picked up at sea once. She and her husband had been shipwrecked coming +home from India, and they had lost their baby--‘Baby Allie,’ the poor +mother called her, with such heart-breaking moans that they have rung +in my ears ever since.” + +“Oh! who were they?” Lady Elaine cried, with almost breathless +eagerness. + +“Ah! leddy, I can’t tell ye; but this young girl looked so exactly like +the beautiful leddy that John and I fell to talking about it and she +heard us. She turned as white as a ghost as she looked around at us and +asked us would we please tell her who we were talking about, for she +had been lost coming home from India during a shipwreck, and there was +some puzzle about her parents and who she were.” + +“It is Arley--she is telling me about Arley!” Lady Elaine cried to +herself, her teeth almost chattering from nervous excitement. She had +half suspected it before--now she was sure. But she restrained her +impulse to speak of it, and listened eagerly while Jane went on with +her story. + +“We told her,” she said, “that we could not tell her who the leddy and +gentleman were, for we were so busy tendin’ to their wants and needs we +never thought to ask; but probably the captain knew, and would tell +her, if she could find him. She sighed and looked disappointed, but +said it was ‘a clew,’ and might help her some time. She seemed ’mazin’ +glad to find we were English, and asked were we goin’ back to England +soon. We told her yes, in a little more’n a week. Then she said, ‘Would +we let her go along with us?’ + +“John was mighty taken with her, for she were jest about the +sweetest-spoken, prettiest little thing we’d ever seen, and he said +he’d try to fix it, if she’d be willin’ to go in a sailin’ vessel. She +told him, so eager and wistful, that she’d go any way to get home once +more. Then we agreed that we’d go and talk more about it with her the +next day, but when we got there, I found her ravin’ with the fever, and +more likely to go into her coffin than back to England. I saw that the +sickness would go hard with her, and there was no one to take care of +her, save that jabberin’ woman who kept the house; so I took my things +right straight off, and told John I should stay with her till the last +minit before it was time to go back to the _Rocket_.” + +“You good creature!” murmured Lady Elaine, with glistening eyes, while +she was trembling from head to foot over this thrilling account of +Arley’s strange misfortunes. + +“Anybody with a heart o’ stone couldn’t have helped it, if they’d seen +her lyin’ there so helpless and neglected; but I didn’t s’pose then +that I was goin’ to get my pay back in the same way,” Jane returned, +with a grateful look in the fair face opposite her. “I s’pose that is +what the good Book means, where it tells ye to ‘cast your bread upon +the waters, and ye shall get it again after many days.’ Well, that poor +dear was dreadful bad for three or four days, but the fifth she seemed +a little better, for she knew me, and told me about her troubles, or +something about them. She didn’t say much about that scamp, she sort +o’ shielded him, but I knew enough already from her ravin’s, and so, +with what she told me, I had the whole story. But it would have broken +your heart to see how she took on when she found that she couldn’t go +home with us, and then it came out that almost all her money had been +stolen, and she hadn’t anything to pay her bills with. But I fixed that +all right for her, and then tried to comfort her as well as I could by +tellin’ her that it wasn’t fit for the like of her to be goin’ back +to England in a sailin’ vessel, and ’twould be ever so much better to +wait and go like a lady in a steamer, and I finally left her a bit +comforted.” + +“But was there no one in all that city--no English person whom you +could have hired to take care of her?” Lady Elaine asked, much +distressed over Arley’s sad state. + +“Not a soul, my leddy, though we asked our guide--we had to hire one +to go with us wherever we went, for, of course, we couldn’t understand +a word of that gibberish, and he didn’t know of anybody; the consul was +away, and so we had to leave her. I s’pose that wretch of a husband was +somewhere about, but he couldn’t be found.” + +“Did he never come to her while she was sick?” + +“No, leddy, not while I were there; she sent for him once, but he’d +gone from their other lodgin’s, and nobody knew where to find him. She +said if she was only well she should not mind bein’ left so much, nor +the loss of the money--though her heart did ache to get home--for she +could draw, and paint, and sell her pictures and take care of herself, +but to be sick and alone and without any money was fit to discourage +anybody. The little chatterin’ doctor was good to her, though, and she +could talk French with him, so it wasn’t quite so bad as it might have +been; and I told her she needn’t worry over the money I’d let her have +and the poor dear wanted me to take her di’monds--for it had gone into +the Lord’s treasury, and He’d take care of it. And He has.” + +“What! have you ever heard from her? Has she sent it back to you?” +asked the young countess, not quite comprehending her meaning. + +“Oh, dear, no marm. I don’t mean that, but you have been so much kinder +to me than I was to her, that I’ve had my pay twice over already,” was +the earnest reply. + +Lady Elaine smiled. + +“That is the way you reckon it, is it?” she said. Then, with a strange +trembling of her lips and a queer feeling at her heart, she asked: + +“Who was this lady? What was her name?” + +“She told me it was Mrs.--Mrs. Paxton--I’m sure that was it; and I +reckon that her scamp of a husband’s other name were Philip, for when +she were ravin’ she would call out that name and beg him to go to work +so that they could go home, and not stay there to starve or get into +debt. I tell ye, my leddy, I don’t do much snivelin’ on my own account, +but it made me cry like a baby to hear her; and then the day I had +to leave her! I declare! for the first time in my life I was almost +willin’ to let John go off alone, while I stayed and took care of her. +Ah! my leddy, but ye have a tender heart yerself,” Jane concluded, +as she heard a convulsive sob and saw that Lady Elaine was weeping +bitterly. + +“Oh, Jane, you do not know it, but you have been telling me about my +dearest friend,” she said. “I was quite sure of it, even before you +spoke her name, and it nearly breaks my heart to learn how she has +suffered and been wronged. She was called Arley Wentworth when I first +knew her, and she was a lovely girl, and she never knew a care or +sorrow until the day she married Philip Paxton. I have never seen her +since, for she went away directly, but she has written to me several +times, though she has never hinted at any trouble, and yet I have +imagined that she was not happy. And now----” + +She stopped short, her face all ablaze with indignation, as she thought +of the wretch who, having refused to do anything to support the wife +whom he had won under false pretenses, had taken her to a strange, +almost barbarous country, and, when she was sick, destitute, and +friendless, had left her to her fate and returned to his own country. + +Her heart was in a perfect tumult of contempt and righteous anger, and +she almost hated herself for having tolerated his presence for one +moment. However, he stood unmasked before her now, and she would know +how to deal with him in the future. + +Jane Collins was greatly surprised by what Lady Elaine told her. + +“Just to think of it!” she cried, her face a perfect picture of +wonderment. “How queer things do come about?” + +“How long were you with Arley?” her companion asked. + +“Just about a week, yer leddyship--the day was set for the _Rocket_ to +sail, and go I must in her, for there was no one to take my place, and +John couldn’t get along without me any more than a baby could without +its mother.” + +“And you are sure that no one came to see or to inquire after my friend +during that time?” questioned the young countess, thoughtfully, and +remembering what Philip had told her about Arley receiving attention +and money from a gentleman in Madrid. + +“No, leddy, not a soul came near her save the doctor, John and I,” Jane +asserted, confidently. + +“Did she at any time speak of any one whom she knew, or wished to call +upon for assistance?” + +“No, marm; she said she hadn’t a friend to help her, and she would be +without a soul to do her a good turn when I was gone.” + +“Strange!” murmured Lady Elaine, musingly. “No, it is not strange, +either,” she added to herself; “it is all of a piece with his other +treachery.” + +Then she began to question Jane regarding the clew which Arley had +gained, or thought she had gained, about her parentage. She made her +go over every item of the story which she had told Arley, and which we +know already; and as she listened to it she also became excited and +nervous over it. + +She drew out her pocket-tablet, writing down portions of the tale, +asking quick, eager questions, taking down the name of the captain of +the _Rocket_, and the place of his residence when in port, and gleaning +every item which seemed likely to be of use in sifting the mystery of +her friend’s birth. + +She was astonished when the little clock in Jane’s kitchen gave five +short, sharp strokes. + +“Why, it is five o’clock, and I have kept you talking much longer than +I ought!” she exclaimed, ruefully. “I have been here more than two +hours, and I should have gone home long ago.” + +She took leave of Jane, and, hastening to her carriage, was driven back +to her hotel. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII. + +ADDING INSULT TO INJURY. + + +Philip had consulted an eminent and not over-scrupulous brother +lawyer--laid his case before him, and learned that it would not be a +very difficult matter to obtain a divorce from Arley, and without any +unpleasant publicity, too; meanwhile he intended to make the most of +his opportunities and cultivate the favor of the beautiful and wealthy +Countess of Mordaunt. + +As soon after the dinner hour as he thought it would do, he presented +himself at the Hamiltons’ parlor door. + +Lady Hamilton was there alone, Sir Anthony having lingered in the +smoking-room below, after dinner, and she received him with her usual +gracious hospitality. + +Ere long he succeeded in engaging her in her favorite game--chess--and +prepared to make a long siege of it, for he was determined to have an +interview with Lady Elaine before he left, if possible. + +She had retired to her own chamber immediately after dinner to write +some letters, and to record in her diary the important facts which she +had that afternoon gleaned from Jane Collins. So she knew nothing of +Philip’s visit, and was entirely unconscious of the uncomfortable state +of unrest and nervous expectation in which he sat watching the door +leading to her room, hoping every moment to see it open, and its fair +occupant come forth. + +He played with Lady Hamilton until she grew so sleepy that she nodded +over the game, frequently making mistakes in her moves, but he +prolonged it by every device he could think of, stubbornly resolved not +to relinquish his purpose. + +Lady Elaine at last made her appearance, and his face cleared instantly. + +She stopped upon the threshold, and seemed half tempted to retreat when +she saw him; then, appearing to change her mind, she came forward and +seated herself before the glowing grate, but merely recognizing him by +a grave bend of her fair head. + +Now, with a few quick, decisive moves, Philip brought a knight, +bishop and pawn to bear upon Lady Hamilton’s king, and an immediate +“check-mate” was the result. + +“I am very stupid to-night, I fear, Mr. Paxton,” his opponent smilingly +affirmed, as she began to arrange the exquisite men in their beautiful, +inlaid box. “I think we shall have to postpone the ‘rubber’ until +another evening. I wonder,” she added, “where Sir Anthony is at this +hour--he seldom goes out after dinner.” She arose, and, going to a +window, looked out upon the street, but a moment after her maid came +into the room to ask her some question, and then, excusing herself, she +retired to her own apartment with her. + +Philip heaved a sigh of relief as mistress and maid disappeared; he +had seen nothing, scarcely been conscious of anything, save that quiet +figure with its grave, sweet face, sitting in the firelight, ever since +Lady Elaine entered; and now, as the door closed after Lady Hamilton, +he arose abruptly, crossed the space between them, and stood before her +on the rug. + +“Lady Elaine,” Philip began, with that air of proud humility which he +knew so well how to assume, while he bent his dark, magnetic eyes upon +her, “the very atmosphere is heavy with censure, oppressing me with the +conviction that I have done something, either to annoy or offend you; +tell me of what I have been guilty that I may atone to the extent of my +power.” + +She turned her grave glance upon him--a clear, searching accusing +glance, that, though he did not once mistrust her knowledge of his +perfidy, made his heart throb with a strange, depressing heaviness. + +“The question is whether you would be willing to atone if I should tell +you,” she said, slowly, and with a seriousness that sent a chill of +foreboding creeping along his nerves. + +“Ah! then you have something against me!” he said, with a quick, +long-drawn breath. It was strange how he seemed to dread incurring her +displeasure. + +“Yes, I have something against you,” she repeated, as slowly as before, +and still keeping her grave, sweet eyes upon his face. + +What a look it was! it filled him with a mysterious pain. He felt +something as a spirit of evil must feel in the presence of an angel of +light. + +“What have I done?” he demanded, in a thick, husky voice, “tell me! I +cannot endure this suspense; no one could be more sorry than I am to +offend you, though I am ignorant of any sin, and there is no atonement +that I will not make; try me, and see--there is nothing that I would +not do for you, Lady Elaine.” + +Again a beautiful flush crimsoned her whole face, but she straightened +herself slightly in her chair; there was something in his look and in +the emphasis which he had employed that offended her. + +But, aside from that slight change of position, she gave him no sign +that his words had moved her in the least. + +After a moment of thought, she replied: + +“If I thought that you really would atone--if I could believe it, it +would change my opinion of you greatly.” + +“Can you not believe it?” he cried, a dark flush mounting to his brow +at the lack of respect which her words seemed to imply, while he became +greatly excited. “I told you to try me--no test will be too severe to +prove my sincerity, I----” + +He hesitated a moment, then with a gesture as if he was driven to +desperation, as if he must leap every barrier and learn his fate, he +took a step forward, and went on, passionately: + +“I cannot keep silent any longer--I must speak--have you not seen, Lady +Elaine, what a captive I have become? how I cannot keep away from you? +Can you not see how all the old passion, which I once betrayed to you, +has revived? No, that word I should not use, for it has never waned, +though, when I found that you loved another, I strove to crush it out +of my heart; but it was of no use, and now I love--I idolize you a +hundredfold--you have become the one hope of my life, and though I may +be premature in this declaration, yet the thought of your displeasure, +the fear that I have offended you, has driven me to it, and forced it +from my lips. Oh, my beautiful beloved, will you doubt now that I will +stand any test? Try me and see; but pray give me a crumb of comfort to +feed upon and I will try to be content with whatever probation you may +see fit to put me on. Dearest, tell me that I may hope for your love, +and you will give me an incentive that will make me courageous to scale +the loftiest heights, or dig to the lowest depths for treasures to lay +at your feet.” + +Lady Elaine read him like a printed page, and she knew that instead of +experiencing any real affection for her, he was now, as before, simply +seeking to obtain a fortune to gratify his ambition for position and +his love of ease, while she was to be but the stepping-stone by which +he hoped to secure it. + +“How can you dare,” she said, “to come to me this evening and say what +you have said to me? I wonder that the words did not paralyze your +tongue as you uttered them. You ask with such an injured, innocent +air what you have done to offend me. What have you not done? All your +treachery of the past year has been revealed to me, and you seem so +little, and mean, and ignoble to me that I could almost trample upon +you. That is not right, I know, for you are one of God’s creatures, +and if He sees fit to let you live among respectable people I have no +right to question His wisdom; but my patience and charity have been +sadly tried by what I have learned to-day of your treatment of my +dearest friend. You won her, a noble, trusting girl--a girl so true +and upright, so sensitively conscious by nature, that she preferred to +endure any amount of personal humiliation and self-denial rather than +be guilty of a wrong toward any one, or commit a mean or unworthy act. +She became your wife, believing that you loved her, and would fulfill +to the letter the vows which you spoke so solemnly when you stood by +her side before the altar. But how have you kept those promises? You +took her away from friends, from her home and country; you dragged +her to a foreign city, where among those most barbarous people, she +must have been more desolate than language can describe; while your +treatment of her drove her to desperation--drove her to the necessity +of working to pay for the bread which she ate, and for the roof which +sheltered her! And then, when she had worn herself out; when heart and +nature both failed her, and she lay sick, week after week--some of the +time almost unto death--you never went to her assistance; you never +exerted yourself to see that she had proper care or attendance, or the +comforts which, in her helplessness, she needed.” + +“Great Heavens! how do you know--who has told you this?” burst from +Philip Paxton’s white lips, while he stood staring, almost wildly, +at the girl before him, great drops of cold perspiration beading his +forehead. + +“It does not signify how I know it,” Lady Elaine returned, with curling +lips; “you perceive that I do know it.” + +“Has Arley written to you? Have you heard from her?” he interrupted, +feeling sure that she could never have learned so much from any other +source. + +“No, Arley has not written one word--she has been heroically silent +throughout all her trouble. I think not even Miss McAllister mistrusts +the terrible ordeal to which you have subjected the dear child whom +she loved so fondly, and to whom she would have flown on the wings +of love, had she even dreamed of what she was suffering. I would have +gone to her--nothing should have kept me from her had I known. Philip +Paxton, if Arley had died when she was so sick there in Madrid, you +would have been--her murderer!” + +“Don’t,” he cried, putting out his hand with an appealing gesture, +while a shudder of repulsion ran over him at the sound of that +startling word. + +Standing there in Lady Elaine’s pure presence, while her scathing words +rained like sharp hailstones fast and thick upon him, he began to see +himself something as she saw him, while the scorn and contempt which +pervaded her every word and gesture actually made him feel faint and +sick. + +“Don’t!” she repeated, with such stinging sarcasm that he cringed as +if she had struck him a sharp blow. “Is it possible that after having +used your wife so heartlessly--after realizing her wretchedness day +after day, and looking unmoved upon her sufferings, you can shrink like +this from the mere mention of them? The pitiful lies you have told me +regarding Arley leaving you--of her appointments with another, and the +money she received from him, are all explained, and I doubt not that +the Englishman whom you, with such pretended righteous wrath, named +as her ‘champion,’ was some noble man who, pitying her helplessness, +offered her his protection, and will show her every respect which a +pure woman should command. Why could you not have been a man, Philip +Paxton, and worthy of a sweet, true woman like Arley Wentworth?” + +He stood before her, abashed at last, his head bowed upon his chest, +his arms folded so tightly across it that his every breath was labored, +while his face, even to his lips, was as colorless as his shirt bosom. + +“I have been mad!” he muttered, under his breath, but Lady Elaine heard +him. + +“You have been wicked,” she returned, relentlessly. “I did believe, +when I first met you at Hazelmere, that there was a noble manhood +within you, for the stamp of it seemed to rest upon your face; but how +deceitful appearances are has been proved by your conduct since. Ah!” +with a regretful sigh, “is it not a pity that a soul should become +so warped and defiled? Why will mankind go so wrong, when the right +way--even though difficulties seem to hedge us about--is always the +better way?” + +Philip lifted his head eagerly, and seemed about to reply as she +ceased; then a deep flush suffused his whole face, and he dropped again +into his former position. + +Something in his look made Lady Elaine think that his better nature +had been aroused at last, and a feeling of pity began to crowd some of +the bitterness out of her heart. + +“Why cannot you do right, Mr. Paxton? why will you not try to atone?” +she pleaded, in a softened tone; but he interrupted her with an almost +despairing gesture. + +“It is too late for that,” he said, bitterly. + +“I fear it is,” she answered, sadly. “I believe, if I were in Arley’s +place, I should feel that there could be no atonement, and of course, +if you do not love her----” + +“Who says I do not love her?” he interrupted again, and almost +fiercely; and Lady Elaine was dumb from wonder at his words. + +“I do not wonder that you look astonished,” he went on, half defiant, +half ashamed; “but if an evil spirit had not possessed me, I never +should have lived the life which I have during the past twelve months. +But my game is up, and I might as well make a clean breast of it; all +I have won for my folly and sin is your contempt and aversion, and the +loss of my wife’s love and respect. It cannot add to my humiliation to +tell you that I have been aroused by being told that I must not aspire +to your hand, while I had sworn to myself that I would be a rich and +prosperous man at any cost, and that I would marry the richest woman I +could find to achieve my object. + +“You may curl your lips, Lady Elaine,” he went on, flushing again at +her involuntary act. “I deserve it, but I tell you I have been mad. I +failed in my efforts to win you, and then I turned to Arley as the next +most tempting prize. I was honest enough in telling her that I loved +her, for she was bright and beautiful, and attracted me as no other +woman had ever done, and, when I found that your fortune was beyond +my reach, my whole heart was set upon winning her. Had she contested +Ina Wentworth’s claim, and kept her fortune, we might have been happy +in each other to this day. But she would not keep it, and my cursed +avarice and willfulness, my intolerance of being thwarted, has been my +ruin.” + +He paused a moment, and Lady Elaine saw that his face was as fixed and +stony as that of a statue. + +Presently he resumed: + +“I did not, however, expect to be brought up in my career with such a +round turn as you have given me to-night. There was, I believe, and as +you have said, something of manhood within me once; but whether the +germ remains, and will ever thrive, I suppose only time will show. +Certainly, in my present mood I can neither form resolutions nor make +promises. Regarding my presumption and folly to-night in renewing my +offensive proposals to you, I fear it would only be adding insult to +injury, and you would feel even more contempt for me than you have +already manifested, if I should express regret and ask your pardon. The +question would naturally arise whether I was most sorry for my sin, or +for having been detected in it. But you have read me a bitter lesson; +you have told me wholesome, though nauseous, truths, and have aroused +my almost torpid conscience at last. Perhaps some time--for I know +you have a tender heart--if I am able to prove to you that I am truly +repentant, you will not then scorn to say that you forgive me. Till +then, Lady Elaine, adieu.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX. + +PHILIP PAXTON’S LETTER. + + +The next morning, Lady Elaine, pleading some excuse, went to +Southampton. + +She was in search of the captain of that vessel--the _Black Swan_, Jane +Collins told her was the name of it--which had picked up that unhappy +father and mother so many years ago, after being wrecked on their +return from India, and who might prove--it was barely possible--to be +Arley’s parents. + +That her visit was successful may be gleaned from her exclamation as +she sank back in the cushions of her carriage on her way home: + +“Arley, Arley, my darling, if everything proves to be as I have reason +to hope, and if I can only find you,” she murmured in such a tender, +yearning voice, “you need be nameless no longer; and, oh! how glad I am +that I can be the one to bring these blessed tidings to you.” + +A day or two later the London _Times_ contained a notice calling +attention to the fact that “Philip Paxton, attorney-at-law, had +returned from abroad, and was prepared to resume his business.” + +That he had been a good lawyer was proved by his former patrons at once +pouring in upon him, until, within a week, he was flooded with work, +and the idle, dissolute man of six months previous was bending every +energy to the task which he had imposed upon himself. + +A month after this good beginning he might have been seen writing far +into the night, while his pale face, compressed lips and troubled brow +told that he was engaged upon no pleasant work; and when at last it was +finished, he threw down his pen and laid back in his chair, with a +sigh that was almost a groan. + +What he had written was a full confession of his wrong-doing. Among +other things he wrote: + +“Arley, I entered your room one day during your absence and stole the +contents of your jewel-casket. Yes, I am a thief with all the rest. I +meant to take your diamonds only and sell them; but, doubtless, you +were wearing them, for they were not in the box. + +“I found, however, to my intense surprise, a hundred-pound note, and +no miser, coming suddenly upon unexpected treasure, ever gloated more +than I over the sight of that English money. A portion of it I used +to gamble with and doubled my stake. Thrice I did this in different +places, and then came home. + +“Your jewels are all safe; my gaming operations had been so successful +that I decided to reserve them for a future emergency, and as that +is not likely to occur, since I hope, like one of old, I ‘am come to +myself,’ I am spared the additional shame of having pawned my wife’s +jewels--the treasured mementoes of happier days. + +“I shall inclose them in a package with this, also the hundred pounds, +with interest, and leave them in my safe, directed to you, so that, in +case anything happens to me before I can ascertain where you are to +send them to you, you will be sure to get them upon your return. + +“This is all the restitution that I am able to make you at present; but +I have resumed my old business, and as I am prospered I will deposit a +sum, from month to month, in the Bank of England to your account, so +that in the future you need lack no comfort that money can buy.” + +Then followed mention of his return to England with the hope of winning +Elaine. + +Finally he wrote: + +“Only one thing more and I will weary you no longer. As soon as I came +to myself I stopped all proceedings for a divorce--I had no right to +obtain it; you had always been all that was patient, kind and true, +and the perjury of the thing appalled me. It remains for you to take +that step, and you have every right and reason to do so, and I assure +you that whatever you may see fit to do in the future I will remain +perfectly passive in the matter--I will never willfully cause you +another pang, nor trouble of any kind, while I live. You shall be free +if you desire; I will strive never to meet you nor offend you with my +presence, and whatever sentence may be passed upon me, I will bear it +patiently and in silence. But, oh! Arley! Arley!----” + +A line had been drawn through those last few words, as if they had been +unwittingly wrung from him in a moment of passionate pain and remorse, +when, as if suddenly recollecting himself, he had stopped and tried to +obliterate them; then he had closed with this almost despairing appeal: + +“I have told you all now--my heart is laid bare before you, even as +it is before the eye that searches every soul; you know all my folly, +weakness and wickedness. + +“I do not ask your forgiveness--I have no right to ask it; but some +time--when, perhaps, long years have softened your sense of wrong +and pain--if you should chance to learn that I am honestly striving +to attain to better things--to regain my lost manhood--will you not +let a little divine compassion into your heart and breathe one single +prayer--I should know it and feel its influence, though the world +divided us--for ‘Philip Paxton?’” + +After sitting a while in sad musing, Philip Paxton aroused himself to +fold the thickly-written sheets before him, though his hands shook +visibly while doing it; then, taking a bank note from his pocketbook, +he inclosed it with the letter in an envelope, and, drawing toward him +a small box which lay upon the desk, he made the whole up into a neat +package and addressed it to Mrs. Philip Paxton. + +Opening a small drawer at his left hand, he laid it carefully within, +shut and locked the drawer again, and the next moment his head dropped +forward upon his hands, while great, deep sobs shook him from head to +foot. + +It was as if he had just buried forever from his sight the dearest +object of his life--and he had. For, henceforth, he felt that Arley +would be naught but a sweet memory to him; one whose beauty, gentleness +and value he had, all too late, learned to appreciate, and who was as +completely lost to him as if she were really dead and had been laid to +rest in the bosom of the earth. + + + + +CHAPTER XXX. + +FORTUNE’S WHEEL. + + +Many weeks went by, and one would scarcely have recognized in the +quiet, hard-working lawyer, who toiled early and late with such +persistence and energy, the idle, defiant, unprincipled man who had +heartlessly dragged his wife away from home and friends, subjecting her +to almost every kind of discomfort, and refusing to put forth a single +effort for her support. + +Philip had not yet ascertained where Arley was, and the letter which +he had written, with her jewels and money, were still in his keeping. + +He could not make up his mind to call upon Miss McAllister to obtain +her address, for he dreaded both her questions and her displeasure. He +had heard that she was something of an invalid and did not go out at +all, so he hoped she had not yet heard of his return. + +She had not, and it was known but by very few outside those doing +business with him, for he did not frequent his old haunts; he shunned +his club and all society, devoting every hour not needed for rest to +his business. + +His business increased so rapidly that he was obliged to hire +assistants, and the gold which he had so coveted began to pour in upon +him from every quarter; but every pound over and above his actual +needs he conscientiously deposited in the Bank of England to swell the +account in Arley’s name. + +And so six months went by in this busy way. At the end of that time he +balanced his accounts, and was astonished with the result. + +“This is not bad for a beginning,” he said as he looked at the generous +figures. “A few years like this, and I could put Arley back where I +found her.” + +“Ah, no!” he added, in a tone sharp with pain. “I could give her twenty +thousand pounds, perhaps, but I can never give her back her free, happy +life--I can never blot from her memory the bitterness, the pain and +disgrace which I have since inflicted upon her. Oh, Arley, my beloved! +why did I not appreciate the prize I had won? If I had but heeded +your counsels, I should now have you and happiness, together with my +prosperity! + +“Fool! fool!” he cried, leaping wildly to his feet, as if he could not +bear the thought of it; “you are rightly punished! No fate, however +wretched, no penance can be too severe for you; you have brought it all +upon yourself, and you must bear it as best you can!” + +There came a rap on his office door just then, but it took him more +than a minute to compose himself sufficiently to go and answer the +summons. + +It was only the postman, who silently handed him an official-looking +document, and then hastened away again. + +In a listless way Philip broke the seals and proceeded to inspect its +contents, supposing it to be something connected with his own business. + +But, after he had read a page or two, he was seized with amazement, and +perused the remainder of the communication with breathless interest. + +That old adage, “It never rains but it pours,” seemed destined to +prove true for Philip Paxton, for he learned that a widowed aunt and +her whole family, consisting of a son and two daughters, who lived +in Wales, had been suddenly swept out of life by that dread disease, +diphtheria. The children had first fallen victims to it, and then the +worn-out, heart-broken mother had lain down to follow them. + +She was the widow of the late Sir Frederick Sharpley, Baronet, who had +been Philip’s mother’s only brother, and the paper which he held in his +trembling hands told him that he, being the nearest living relative, +was heir to the estate and title of his uncle. + +He could not realize it; it had come upon him so suddenly, so wholly +unexpected that he actually could not comprehend it, and sat staring at +the document in a way that would have been ludicrous under any other +circumstances. + +Twice he was obliged to read it through before he could realize that +it was not all a vision of his own imagination. But it was all there +in black and white; the family lawyer had made it very plain, and had +written him immediately after Lady Sharpley’s funeral, at her request. + +She would allow no notice to be sent him of her children’s death, on +account of the fear of contagion, and when she found that she also +could not live, she exacted a promise that he should be told nothing +for the same reason, until she should be lain in the family vault, +and the house thoroughly purified, lest he, too, contract the fatal +disease, and the estate, for the lack of an heir, fall to the crown. + +“Tell him,” were her last words, “to be a good, an honorable man, and +keep the title unspotted. There has never yet been a stain upon the +fair escutcheon of the family, and my personal legacy to him is, its +purity--let him maintain it as long as he shall live.” + +It was with a very white face that Philip at length folded up that +startling communication and fell to musing upon its contents. + +The estate of the late Sir Frederick, the lawyer wrote, was a +remarkably fine one, wholly unencumbered, and with a rent roll of +nearly fifteen thousand pounds, while there was a bank account yielding +nearly as much more. + +How strangely fortune’s wheel turns round! + +Coming just at this time, Philip felt as if he could not bear these new +honors which had been heaped so unexpectedly upon him, and, bowing his +head upon his desk, he groaned aloud, feeling humiliated and crushed as +he had never felt before. + +What were houses, lands, rent rolls or bank accounts to him now? They +were like the “apples of Sodom that turn to ashes in the grasp.” + +His new position would bring him no happiness; it could not restore to +him either his own self-respect or Arley’s love--the only two things +which seemed really worth anything just now to him. + +But with new honors came new cares; his inheritance must be looked +after, and as soon as he could arrange his business so as to leave it, +he repaired to Elmsford, as Sir Frederick’s estate had been called. + +He found it a beautiful place. The mansion itself was very old, but, +having been built in a most substantial way and kept in thorough +repair, with modern conveniences added from time to time, it was a +house to love and be proud of. The grounds about it had been laid out +with exquisite taste and judgment, and were considered the finest +in the county. There was a deer park, abounding in deer, for Lady +Sharpley had allowed no hunting since her husband’s death, five years +previously; while the wide-spreading upland and meadow on every hand +were rich with grain and herbage. + +There was a fine picture-gallery in the mansion, containing works of +some of the best artists--both of sculptors and painters--of several +centuries, and there was a wealth of plate, of solid silver, that was +fairly dazzling to the eyes. + +As Philip Paxton roamed over his new possessions, visiting room after +room, noting the beauty and elegance of everything about him, no smile +came to his lips, no gladness to his heart, for it all seemed to mock +at him, to jeer at the emptiness of his soul. + +Mr. Farley, the steward, appeared to be a competent, trustworthy young +man, and he was much pleased with him. + +He had received the young baronet with great courtesy and friendliness, +conducting him over the estate with evident pride in its fine +appearance, while his books, upon examination, showed excellent +business capacity; and Philip resolved to leave the management of it +still in his hands--at least for the present--while he returned to his +own labors in London. + +There was no longer any need of this, pecuniarily, but work had become +a mental necessity; it would not do to stop; he must not have time +to brood over his past, lest his remorse and misery drive him to +desperation. + +So, giving Mr. Farley full control, Sir Philip Paxton went back to his +close chambers in Grey’s Inn, leaving all this beauty and luxury behind +him, and plunged more assiduously than ever into his business. + +But one thing he had resolved upon, and now carried it into action. He +paid a visit to Arley’s old lawyer and had the twenty thousand pounds +which he had deposited in the bank written up to Arley’s account. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI. + +THE RING. + + +“Miss McAllister, do you know the name of the vessel in which Arley was +sent home from India?” + +This question was asked by Lady Elaine, who called to see that lady the +day following her visit to Captain Conway at Portsmouth. + +She had been telling her something of Jane Collins, and her meeting +with Arley in Madrid, and of the story which had been elicited by +Arley’s resemblance to the beautiful lady who had been rescued by the +_Black Swan_. + +She did not, however, say anything about her troubles. She thought that +if Arley had written nothing about them herself, it was because she +still wished to conceal them; though with Philip in London, she did not +see how it was possible for her to remain in ignorance much longer. + +“Yes,” Miss McAllister returned to her question, “it was the _White +Star_.” + +“No--I mean the name of the vessel by which she was rescued, not the +one that was wrecked.” + +“Oh, that was the _Vulcan_.” + +Lady Elaine wrote the name down on her tablet. + +“What was the name of the captain of the _Vulcan_?” she asked. + +“That I do not remember--it has gone from me; but it will be in my +brother’s diary. Ina, dear please hand it to me from the upper drawer +in his desk; there are three volumes; bring me the second,” the old +lady said to Ina Wentworth, who, under the influence of happiness, and +surrounded by every luxury, had grown a hundredfold more beautiful than +when we saw her for the first time on Arley’s wedding day. + +“But why are you so very eager about these particulars?” Miss +McAllister continued to Lady Elaine, as Ina rose to do her bidding. + +“Because,” she answered, with heightening color, “I believe if I follow +this clew closely, I shall discover who Arley’s parents were. I cannot +help thinking that she is this lost baby, Allie, for whom that poor +mother mourned so, and if I can but find the captain of the _Vulcan_, I +believe he will be able to give me valuable information. Have you any +of the clothing that she wore home at that time?” + +“Nothing but her little shoes and stockings and a tiny ring set with an +emerald. Her clothing was so soiled and defaced by the sea water that +we did not preserve it.” + +“A little ring set with an emerald,” repeated Lady Elaine, quickly, not +heeding the rest of Miss McAllister’s sentence, while a quick, eager +flush mounted to her forehead--“a ring, or a jewel of any kind is often +the key to such mysteries; may I see it?” + +“Of course you may see it,” the old lady returned, with an indulgent +smile, “but I hardly think it will prove anything unless you first find +the parents to identify it, for there might be a hundred such rings in +the world. When it got too tight for Arley’s little fingers I put it +away with the shoes and stockings, and have always regarded them as +sacred relics, since they were all that remained of her parents’ loving +care for her. + +“Now, dear,” she added, as Ina came forward and laid Dr. McAllister’s +diary in her lap, “in the second drawer of my escritoire you will find +a small box tied with a blue ribbon; will you please bring that to me +also,” and the beautiful girl, always attentive to her slightest wish, +hastened to get it, and at a gesture from her aunt handed it to Lady +Elaine. + +But her fingers trembled so with excitement and eagerness that she +could not unfasten the knot in which the ribbon was tied. + +Miss McAllister reached out her hand and gently took it from her. + +“My dear, how excited you are over a trifle,” she said. “There is +nothing here which can possibly prove anything, unless, as I said +before, you can find the parents themselves.” + +She untied the knot, lifted the cover, and then laid the box back in +her visitor’s lap. + +There were two little packages in it, wrapped about with tissue paper, +showing that a loving hand had cared for the contents. + +Lady Elaine lifted one and took the paper from it. Two tiny shoes fell +out. They were wrinkled and worn, stained and defaced with sea water, +while their little buttons were blackened and tarnished with time. + +“May I take these things for a little while, Miss McAllister?” Lady +Elaine asked. “I will guard them as I would a priceless treasure, and +see that nothing happens to them,” she added appealingly. + +“Certainly; you can take them and keep them as long as you think you +may need them. I never attached any importance to anything but the +ring until we discovered that our dear Arley did not really belong to +us--I merely kept them because I thought she would prize them as being +the last things that her mother had provided for her. + +“But we had nearly forgotten about the captain of the _Vulcan_,” she +continued, taking up and opening the diary which Ina had brought her. + +She turned the leaves until she found the date of Arley’s return, and, +after reading a few pages, she looked up, saying: + +“It was Captain Simons, dear; but that is all I can find about him.” + +“Who brought Arley to you?” Lady Elaine asked, as if inspired by some +sudden thought. + +“A poor woman who was flying from poverty and pestilence in France, +and who hoped to find friends and help here in London. She had lost a +little one just before leaving home, and gladly took charge of Arley +during the remainder of the voyage after she was rescued.” + +“But there were others rescued at the same time, were there not?” asked +Lady Elaine, anxiously. + +“Oh, yes; several.” + +“And did no one know anything about the child? Oh, it seems so strange +that there should be all this mystery, when others were saved from the +same vessel!” and Lady Elaine was greatly agitated. + +“Yes, it is strange; but you know that every one is for himself at +such a time; the sailor told the captain that she was the child who +was to be sent to Dr. McAllister, of London, and he immediately gave +her to the first one who was willing to assume the care of her. This +woman--Mary Nelson was her name--yearned for the little one, cared +most tenderly for her until the vessel reached port, when he ordered a +carriage for her and sent her to us with the child.” + +“God bless her, and the sailor also who saved her!” cried Lady Elaine, +with streaming eyes. + +“My dear, I am afraid you are getting very nervous and excited over +this matter,” Miss McAllister said, gravely, as she looked into the +flushed, beautiful face. + +“What became of this woman afterward?” Lady Elaine asked, struggling +for composure. + +“She died----” + +“Died?” interrupted her listener. + +“Yes. My brother was so grateful to her for the services which she +had rendered Arley, and she appeared to be so fond of her, that he at +once took her into the family as her nurse. But she only lived three +months. She took the typhus fever, and died very suddenly.” + +Lady Elaine sighed heavily and arose to go. She had not learned much to +help her in her quest, but she was just as resolute to pursue it, in +spite of the difficulties which seemed to hedge her about. + +She repaired immediately to one of the steamship lines and made +inquiries regarding the _White Star_, which had been wrecked in 18-- on +her homeward voyage from Calcutta. + +The names of its owners were easily found, and, with their addresses +written out, Lady Elaine hastened away to seek an interview with them. + +Yes, they remembered the captain of the _White Star_ well, they told +her, when she made her inquiry. He had managed, with his wife--who had +been with him on that fatal voyage--and three or four of the crew, +to make his way to land; but it was not without untold suffering and +hardship, nor until every hope of saving the battered steamship was +past. He had afterward been given the command of another vessel, which +he sailed successfully for a dozen years. After that he had been +attacked with rheumatic troubles and the company did not know whether +he was living or not at the present time. The last they had heard of +him he was residing at Harrow; a town about fifteen miles from London. +His name was Bancroft, and he had been a gallant, faithful, captain. + +To Harrow, Lady Elaine hastened, hope reviving in her heart; but her +first inquiry met with a most disappointing reply. Captain Bancroft had +died three years previously. + +What should she do? she asked herself, appalled. Must she relinquish +her search? She felt sure that this man could have solved the whole +mystery, and there seemed no other way under heaven to have it +explained. She could not feel reconciled to this disappointment. + +“Did he leave no family?” she asked, in a weak voice, of her informant. + +“Only a wife,” was the reply. “His two sons--one the captain, the other +the mate of a vessel--were both drowned at sea three months before +their father’s death, and the shock killed him.” + +“Does his wife reside here?” Lady Elaine questioned, her face lighting +a trifle, for she remembered having been told that the captain’s wife +had been with him at the time of the wreck of the _White Star_. + +“Yes, in yonder cottage, poor thing! in poverty and loneliness.” + +“Poor thing, indeed!” Lady Elaine murmured, as she turned toward the +forsaken-looking place pointed out to her. + +It could not have contained more than three rooms, and was unpainted +and weather-beaten and fast falling to decay. The weeds grew rank about +the door; many of the windows were broken and the apertures either +pasted over with papers or stopped with rags. A kitten lay asleep upon +the door-step in the sun, while two or three hens strutted lazily about +in the yard, and were the only signs of life about the place. + +Having but very little hope of having her mystery solved in that +miserable place, yet feeling that it could do no harm to ask a few +questions, Lady Elaine hesitatingly approached the door and knocked +lightly upon it. After a moment or two of delay it was opened, and she +stood face to face with a majestic-looking woman of about sixty years. + +She was very tall and large of frame, straight as an arrow, despite her +life of toil and hardship, and with the bearing of one born to command. + +Her hair was white as snow; her face was wrinkled and bronzed, wearing +a stern expression, though a not unkindly gleam lighted her large, blue +eyes as they rested questioningly upon the fair young girl who stood +before her. + +Her garb was poor, but spotlessly clean, as was also the floor of the +room within which she stood. + +“I am in search of the wife of the late Captain Bancroft,” Lady Elaine +began, hardly knowing how to open the subject of her errand. + +“She stands before you,” was the curt yet civil reply. + +“May I come in and talk with you a little while, then, Mrs. Bancroft?” +the fair girl asked, adding: “I want to ask you something about the +_White Star_, which was wrecked so many years ago.” + +A spasm of pain shot across the woman’s face at this request. + +“Yes, yes, you can come in,” she said, with a long-drawn sigh, and, +throwing the door wide for her visitor to enter, she brought forward +the only rocking-chair the room contained, for her to sit upon. + +“I should not have intruded upon you,” Lady Elaine said, when they +were both seated, “but it is of vital importance to me and a very +dear friend, that we learn everything possible about the loss of that +steamer.” + +“Ah, miss! ah, miss! that was a sad, sad day! I never saw the like of +it before--I have never seen the like of it since!” wailed the old +woman, rocking back and forth in her chair and covering her face with +her apron, as if to shut out even the memory of it. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXII. + +MRS. BANCROFT’S NARRATIVE. + + +At this outburst from Captain Bancroft’s widow, Lady Elaine flushed and +looked troubled. + +It pained her to arouse the woman’s sorrows like this, and yet she +felt that if she could throw any light upon the mystery which she was +seeking to unravel, it was no more than right for her to ask her to do +so. + +But Mrs. Bancroft soon recovered herself, and, sitting erect, +she looked even more stern than before, while she said, with the +stateliness that would have become a queen: + +“Pardon me, young lady; but I never can recall that time of horror +without a terrible shrinking. If there is anything that I can tell you, +however, or any way that I can serve you, I am very willing to do so.” + +Lady Elaine thanked her, and then said: + +“I was told that you accompanied your husband upon this voyage of which +I have spoken, and after learning that he was not living, I thought +perhaps you might be able to tell me what I want to know.” + +“I will, miss, anything that I can.” + +“Were there any children on board?” asked Lady Elaine. + +“Yes, there were five--two boys of ten and twelve, brothers; and three +little girls--one five, the other two mere babies, about a year and a +half old.” + +Lady Elaine caught her breath at those last words. + +“Ah! do you remember those babies distinctly?” she asked, eagerly. + +“Perfectly,” returned the ancient dame, whose memory appeared to be in +as fine a state of preservation as her body. “One was a poor little +waif--an orphan--whose parents had both died in India, and who was +being sent to its grandfather in England, in the care of its nurse, an +Ayah, who couldn’t speak a word except in her own language.” + +“Describe the child, please,” Lady Elaine said, with paling lips, while +her chest rose and fell with excitement; “was she dark, with large, +black eyes and curling hair?--was she anything like this?” and she drew +from her pocket a picture of Arley, which Miss McAllister had taken off +soon after her return, and Lady Elaine had begged leave to take for +awhile. + +Mrs. Bancroft adjusted her glasses and looked at it intently for a +moment. + +“No, this is a picture of the other one; but the one I was telling you +about had great, blue-gray eyes and sunny, brown hair, that did not +curl, but hung in soft, little waves over her shoulders. She was white +and plump and as pretty as a little wax doll, and the nurse called her +a queer name--Ar--Arley, I think it was; yes, I am sure that was it, +for I remember how strangely she used to pronounce it, and it was the +only word any one could understand, though she would chatter away most +fondly to her little charge, in her own language, and always took the +best of care of her. But you seem to be getting excited, young lady,” +she added, seeing how very pale Lady Elaine was, and that she trembled +violently. + +“It does not matter,” was the low, eager reply; “please go on; can you +remember how this little one was dressed?” + +“No; only that she had a great many dainty little dresses, and her +nurse seemed to take great pride in making her look as fine as +possible; but one thing that she wore--a pretty little chain--I do +remember, for she would persist in putting it into her mouth and biting +it with her little, white teeth, and one day when I took it out and +told her she must not do so, I saw the letters ‘A. W.’ marked on the +catch.” + +Lady Elaine sat listening, with wide, eager eyes, and hands almost +convulsively clasped on her lap. + +How exactly all this agreed with the story which Ina had told to prove +her identity! + +“I shall never forget,” Mrs. Bancroft went on, “how frantic that nurse +was when she found out that the vessel must go to pieces. I remember +seeing her walking the saloon from end to end like a wild woman, +hugging and kissing the child, and sobbing as if her heart would break. +The next thing I knew, she brought her up on deck, wrapped securely in +a waterproof, and tied her with a strong rope into a trunk-tray and +that is all that I can tell you about her.” + +“That is all that I need to know about her, madam,” Lady Elaine +returned, leaning back in her chair, and feeling almost faint, for she +was sure that she should learn all that she wished to know now--the +“mystery” would all be solved at last, and she could hardly wait until +it should be told. + +“It is about the other child that I wish particularly to hear,” she +resumed; “she is the one whose identity I wish to prove, though what +you have already told me confirms a great deal. But this black-eyed +child was taken by mistake to the place where the other one should +have gone, and it is only recently that she has discovered she is an +entirely different person from the one she has been brought up to +believe herself.” + +“Is that so?” demanded Mrs. Bancroft, actually startled out of her +almost stoical calmness into something like interest by this statement. + +“Yes,” Lady Elaine returned; and then she gave her a brief account of +Arley’s life, and the appearance and developments of Ina Wentworth upon +the wedding day of the former. + +“Well, child, this has been a puzzle indeed,” the widow said; “but you +have hit upon the right one at last to work it out for you; though it +is the strangest thing in the world that both of those babies should +have been saved from that wreck! I tell you it was a fearful time!” + +“I do not doubt it,” Lady Elaine said, with a shudder. “Now will you +please tell me about the dark-eyed child?” + +“With the greatest pleasure, miss. She was the brightest little darling +in the world; she had such great, beautiful eyes, rosy cheeks, and such +cunning little white teeth, and just the cutest ways. Her mother called +her ‘Allie’--‘Baby Allie,’ and both she and her husband seemed to +worship her. She was never allowed to go out of their sight, and they +hung over her as if they thought there never had been another child +like her in the world. They were young people, too, and more like a +pair of lovers than like husband and wife.” + +“What were their names?” Lady Elaine interrupted, with such breathless +eagerness that her voice sounded weak and faint. + +Mrs. Bancroft paused to think a moment. + +“Well, miss,” she then said, as if surprised at herself, “I thought I +could speak it on the instant, but it has gone from me just at this +moment. But I have it somewhere, and I’ll find it for you before you +go.” + +Lady Elaine opened her lips to beg her to find it at once; but, +thinking better of it, she controlled her impatience, and waited +anxiously for the rest of her story. + +“They were Lord and Lady somebody, anyhow,” the widow said, still +looking annoyed at having forgotten, “and her first name was +Margaret--that much I do remember--and she was so sick that I waited +upon her a great deal, while the child’s nurse couldn’t raise her +head from her pillow, and so the little one fell into my hands almost +altogether, when her papa did not feel able to take care of her. I told +you the baby was a cute little thing, and I shall never forget one +caper that she cut up. She wore a little ring on one of her fingers, +and it had a bright green stone in it.” + +Lady Elaine drew a little box from her pocket, and taking from it the +tiny emerald ring which Miss McAllister had loaned her, she held it +out with a trembling hand to her companion. + +“Was it anything like this?” she asked. + +Again the spectacles were adjusted over those aged eyes, and the dame +bent to examine the trinket. + +“I should say that it is the very same. I should know it anywhere,” she +said. + +“Arley! Arley! it is proved at last,” Lady Elaine cried, in a low, +exultant voice, and covering her face she wept such happy, happy tears, +while the old woman, sitting opposite, regarded her with wonder, and +thought that she must love this friend, for whom she was laboring so +earnestly, very dearly. + +“And here, also are a pair of shoes and stockings that she wore at the +time of her rescue,” the young girl continued, after a few moments, +and, drawing them forth, she laid them upon the woman’s lap. + +“Aha!” she cried, eagerly seizing upon the tiny stockings, “her +ladyship knit those herself.” + +“How do you know?” Lady Elaine asked, astonished. + +“Because she told me so. One day when she was feeling a little better +than usual, I found her bolstered up in her berth trying to finish off +a pair just like them, and that were almost done. + +“‘I am so tired lying here doing nothing,’ she said, when I told her +she was not able. + +“‘What pretty little socks,’ I told her; ‘the prettiest I had ever +seen,’ for I had never set eyes on silk stockings before. + +“Well, just as she had finished them she gave them to me, and in the +toe of each was a gold eagle. + +“‘Ah, lady,’ I said, ‘you are very kind, but it is too bad to give me +these socks that you have knit for the little one.’ + +“‘I can make some more,’ she said, ‘keep them for your own little girl, +if you should ever have one; if not, give them to your first grandbaby.’ + +“But, miss, God never gave me one, for both my boys were lost at sea.” + +The poor woman broke down entirely here, and covering her face with her +apron, wept bitterly. + +But she soon checked herself again, and rising, went to an old chest +that stood in one corner of the room. + +She came back after a minute or two, and laid a small package in Lady +Elaine’s lap. + +“There they are,” she said, “take them and give them to your +friend--the one for whom they were knit--with an old woman’s blessing.” + +Lady Elaine unfolded the package with reverent fingers, and saw there +a tiny pair of light-blue silk stockings, the exact counterpart of the +ones already in her possession, except for the holes and stains. + +“Oh!” she cried, clasping her hands, and heaving a sigh of delight, “I +cannot tell you how much I thank you; and madam, what you have told +me proves beyond a doubt just what I wanted to know; and now, after +more than nineteen years, my dear Arley will be restored to her proper +position in life.” + +“Ah, but she cannot be restored to her father and mother,” said Mrs. +Bancroft, sadly. + +Lady Elaine lifted her eyes with a quick, questioning, look, and the +widow added: + +“For they are dead; I read a notice of their death several years ago.” + +“Did you?” asked her companion, then she added, musingly: “It seems +strange that Arley should have been separated from them at the time of +the wreck.” + +“It was through no fault of theirs, dear,” the captain’s wife answered. +“His lordship clung to his child with one arm, and to his wife with the +other; and I heard him say, as they stood waiting for a lifeboat to be +made ready: ‘My treasures, if death comes we shall all go together; +I will never give either of you up.’ But he did not know. They were +safely seated in the boat ready to push off, when a great wave dashed +over it and swamped it. Another was quickly lowered, and as many +rescued as could be found. My lord and lady were among the number, but +the baby could not be found, and I have always supposed, until to-day, +that she was lost.” + +Lady Elaine’s eyes were full of tears. + +“Now will you please find their names for me?” she asked, in a low but +trembling tone. + +“Yes, yes; the captain always kept a copy of the passenger list of +every voyage, and it will be easy enough to find them,” the woman +replied, and rising again, she brought from another room a wooden box +about a foot square. + +It was full of nothing but passenger lists--a curious assortment of all +shapes and sizes. + +It was something of a task to find the one she wanted, but they were +placed according to their dates, and at last Mrs. Bancroft drew one +from a package which she had been looking over, and handing it to Lady +Elaine, pointed to three names about midway of the list. + +The young girl bent eagerly forward, but her tears were falling like +rain, and she could not see. + +She wiped her eyes, and then with bated breath and throbbing heart, +read what she had so longed to know. + +A minute after, she looked up into Mrs. Bancroft’s face, her own all +aglow with emotion, her eyes full of deep delight. + +“It is just as I have suspected,” she said, in a low, tremulous +tone; “I have known something of these people before, but I did not +think--oh! I never dreamed until very recently that Arley belonged to +them. How strange--how wonderful it is!” + +Then bidding her farewell, she went away. + +Lady Elaine had obtained Arley’s address from Miss McAllister and she +immediately wrote her an imperative summons to “come home.” + +“I have such glorious news for you,” she wrote. “I have discovered +your parentage. You are no longer a stray waif; you are no longer +‘nameless.’ It is such a long and complicated story that I cannot write +it.” + +Such was a portion of the young countess’ letter to the friend whom, +during those happy days at Hazelmere, she had claimed as hers for all +time, and then sealed the compact with that beautiful ring. + +“In sickness or in health, for better or for worse, it will be all the +same. Be sure that you never forget it, Arley,” she had said, with +solemn sweetness, and how nobly she was proving her sincerity now! + +But long weeks went by and Arley did not come, nor any reply to her +urgent letter, and she grew troubled and anxious over the delay. + +She wrote again and again, with the same result; and Miss McAllister +was also in much distress now, for it had been a long time since she +had received a letter from her absent dear one, and she was beginning +to imagine all sorts of evil things as happening to her. + +“She is either sick or unhappy,” she said, one day, when Lady Elaine +called to see if there was any word from her. “If she is sick, Philip +ought to write; if she is unhappy, of course I know very well that +neither of them would let it be known. I do not like it. I am very +uneasy.” + +“Ah, you might well be troubled and anxious if you knew all!” thought +Lady Elaine. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII. + +THE CRASH ON THE RAILROAD. + + +Meanwhile strange things were happening to Philip Paxton. + +He had occasion one day to go to Greenwich upon important business for +a client, and as he was anxious to get back just as soon as possible, +he resolved to go by the underground railway and return the other way. + +As he entered and took his seat in the coach at the station, he found +three others in the compartment--a man and woman of very respectable +appearance, and with them an exceedingly bright boy of perhaps twelve +or thirteen years. + +The man was evidently a mechanic of some sort, with an honest, open +face, a frank, clear eye, and--what particularly attracted Philip’s +attention--was most politely attentive to his wife, who was a delicate, +pretty little woman, wearing the happiest smile that he had ever seen. + +The boy was full of life and eagerness, intelligent beyond his years, +and kept asking questions regarding their trip, which, apparently was +one of pleasure, that both interested and amused Philip. + +He appeared to take no notice of them, but nothing escaped his +observation; he saw everything--the kind little attentions of the +husband to his wife, her happy smile as she raised her eyes in mute +thanks to his, and the patient, tender replies of both to their son’s +eager questioning. + +Thus the time passed until they had nearly reached Greenwich, where he +found his companions were also going, when there suddenly smote the +air, a short, sharp, terrible whistle, then followed a crash which made +him feel as if he was being crushed between a couple of thunderbolts, +and he knew no more until he felt himself lifted and carried quite a +distance, and then laid down upon a board or floor. + +Opening his eyes, he found he was stretched upon the platform near +the station where they were about to stop, and where the accident had +occurred; and as the mist cleared still farther from his brain and +sight, he saw a crowd of people, with anxious, scared faces, running +to and fro, carrying lanterns, buckets of water and implements for +removing the _debris_. + +A little way back he could see a great mass lying upon the track, +and though but dimly discerning it in the gloom of that underground +passage, he knew it was a portion of the train which had brought him +hither. + +A man came up to him just then and peered curiously into his face. + +“Hump!” he said, with an accent of surprise, “yer cum to, be ye? I +didn’t think ye ever would when we hauled ye up here--thought ye had +kicked the bucket, sure.” + +“What has happened?” Philip asked, faintly, and trying to raise his +hand to his aching head. + +“Switch wor wrong, and there’s ben a smashup.” + +“Are there many injured?” + +“Thank Heaven, no sir!--though it’s a wonder there weren’t a hundred +or more killed. But it’s bad enough at best, sir--a man and woman wor +killed outright, and a little boy most done for--that wor all, beside +yerself, sir.” + +“A man and woman and little boy,” Philip repeated, his mind reverting +instantly to his companions in whom he had been so interested. “They +must have been in the coach with me.” + +“They wor, sir; ye were all snarled in together; we thought ye wor all +dead but the boy, and we took care o’ him fust; poor little shaver! It +wor a pitiful sight, and he tried to be brave when they pulled him from +under the cruel wheel that had crushed his leg to a jelly; the look in +his eyes and his bitter moans went through me like a knife, sir, for +I’ve a boy at home just his size,” and the man’s voice was tremulous +and husky as he told his sorrowful tale. + +“Poor little fellow!--where is he now?” Philip asked, striving to lift +himself to a sitting posture; but the effort made him faint and sick, +while a shower of stars appeared to be hurled directly into his eyes. + +“Where is the boy now?” he asked after a moment, his mind still upon +the little sufferer. + +“In the station yonder, sir.” + +“Help me to my feet; I want to go to him,” Philip commanded, and his +good-natured attendant assisted him to rise. + +Slowly, and not without much pain, he made his way to the station, +where on a settee they had laid the poor little fellow, whom accident +had made an orphan in a moment of time, and probably, also, a cripple +for life. + +A crowd was gathered about him, gazing awestruck and pityingly upon +him, while they waited for a surgeon, whom some one had gone to summon. + +As Philip drew near him, a look of recognition came into his eyes, and +he made a spasmodic gesture with his hand as if to beckon him to his +side. + +He went close to him, and bending over him, took his handkerchief and +wiped the moisture from his face. + +“My poor boy, I am sorry to see you so badly hurt,” he said. + +“Water!” gasped the child. + +“Water!” Philip repeated, authoritatively, turning to those behind him. + +A glass was instantly handed to him, and raising the sufferer’s head +with as much gentleness as an experienced nurse would have done, he +held it to his mouth while he drank greedily. + +But the effort cost him untold pain, and he moaned pitifully as he was +laid back upon the pile of coats, which had been hastily formed into a +pillow for him. + +At that moment a brisk, wiry man pushed up to him. + +“Go out--go out, every one of you!” he said, turning around and facing +the crowd and speaking with quiet decision. + +They began to scatter obediently, though reluctantly, for a sort of +fascination seemed to possess them to stay and view the ghastly horror. + +Philip also would have withdrawn from his position, but the boy clung +to his hand, which he had grasped in a sort of terror when the surgeon +made his appearance. + +“Stay--please stay!” he cried, in a feeble voice. + +“Does he belong to you?” the surgeon asked of Philip. + +“No,” he returned, “but I was in the same carriage at the time of the +accident, and he seems to cling to me.” + +“Very well, stay then. Ah, you were hurt, too, eh?” he queried, with a +keen glance into his colorless face. + +“A trifle; but never mind me--see what you can do for him,” Philip +answered, with a feeling of impatience. + +But the surgeon had begun his examination almost before he ceased +speaking. + +With nimble fingers and a pair of sharp, glittering scissors, he +cut away the clothing from that injured limb, and nothing but the +convulsive clasp of that small hand upon his kept Philip from fainting +dead away at the ghastly sight thus revealed. + +The surgeon’s own face grew stern and resolute as he looked upon the +work before him, though his eye was calm and his hand steady, nor +did he make a single false movement as he examined the cruel hurt to +ascertain the extent of the injury. + +But gentle as was his touch, the ordeal was a fearful one, and the +child cringed and screamed with pain, but still clinging through it all +to Philip, whom he seemed instinctively to trust. + +“I shall have to give him ether--I can never take those arteries up +properly with him in this state,” the surgeon said, in a low tone to +him. + +“It would be a mercy, I think,” Philip answered, with colorless lips. + +“You will stay?” pleaded the boy, with a closer grip. + +“Yes, I will stay--I will not leave you until you are comfortable,” was +the reassuring reply. + +He looked relieved, and made no resistance when the surgeon applied +the sponge to his nostrils, and he knew nothing more until all was +over; which means a great deal, for the bones of his foot and ankle had +been so broken and crushed that it was found necessary to remove it +just above the joint, while the taking up of the arteries, the placing +and sewing of the bruised and torn flesh was in itself no trifling +operation. + +But is was very quickly and neatly done, and when the poor little +fellow recovered consciousness, he was ready to be removed to more +comfortable quarters. + +“He must go to a hospital immediately,” the surgeon said to Philip, as +he held a strengthening mixture to his lips and told him to drink it. + +“No--not there,” he cried, feebly, but with a shudder of repulsion. + +“But you will be much better cared for there than anywhere else, my +boy,” returned the doctor, kindly. + +“No, no! Father--mother--home!” he gasped, wildly. + +The surgeon looked grave; he had been told the whole story on his way +hither. + +“But, my child,” he said, after a few moments’ hesitation, “they are +both injured, too”--he had not the heart to tell him that they were +dead--“and they could not take care of you, if you should go home.” + +“Is there any one else in your house?” Philip asked. + +He shook his head wearily, a despairing look in his face. + +“Is hospital treatment absolutely necessary?” Philip asked, +thoughtfully. + +“No; not if he had a good home and some one to give him proper care.” + +“Then I can supply the first, if you can recommend a good, reliable +nurse for him,” Philip returned, adding, after a moment, in a lower +tone: + +“I feel deeply interested in the boy, and I will be answerable for him +until some other provision can be made.” + +He took a card from his pocket, wrote his address upon it, and gave it +to the surgeon. + +“All right, Mr. Paxton,” he said, as he read it. “You are very good, +I am sure, to take this upon yourself, and I will see that you have a +first-rate nurse. But”--suddenly remembering that he, too, had been +injured, and remarking his pallor--“what can I do for you? Where were +you hurt?” + +“Nowhere particularly. I had an ugly knock on my head which stunned me, +but I seem to be getting better of it, and I hope it will not amount to +anything.” + +“Don’t be too sure,” replied the doctor. “You must look out for +yourself. Give your head plenty of water for the next fortnight, and +live light. These knocks on the head sometimes prove more harmful than +one would imagine.” + +Philip said nothing to this, though his head still felt very strangely; +but turning to his new charge, who had been watching the two men +anxiously, said: + +“You cannot go home, my boy, just now, because there is no one there to +take care of you, and you do not wish to go to the hospital. Will you +go with me, and be taken care of until you are able to go home?” + +“Where are father and mother?” the boy asked, raising his wistful eyes +to Philip’s, with a look that made him shrink with pain. + +“I told you that they were hurt, you know. Some people outside are +caring for them,” he answered, evasively. + +“Are they much hurt?” the child asked, with a sob. + +“I have not seen them. I came directly to you as soon as I was able. +But what will you do?” + +Philip did not dare to tell him the truth, and he longed to get him +away as quickly as possible, lest he should overhear something. + +“I will go with--you,” he answered, feebly; and they saw he was growing +faint from excitement and the exertion of talking. + +The surgeon gave him a stimulating draught; then, a carriage having +been obtained, he was borne out and laid upon the cushions and driven +to Philip’s lodgings, which were in a pleasant street and a quiet +locality. + +His landlady was very willing to rent an empty room next to Philip’s, +and her sympathy being aroused she did her utmost to make the little +stranger comfortable in it. + +The nurse arrived by noon, and Philip was relieved of his charge and +began to think of himself a little, and to wonder if those sharp, +shooting pains which made him blind and sick every few moments would +never stop. + +He showered his head thoroughly with cold water, then binding wet +bandages about it, he threw himself upon his bed and was soon in a +profound slumber. + +When he awoke he felt better, though there was still a queer sensation +in his head, and he was yet weak from the shock which his system had +sustained at the time of the accident. + +He went into the adjoining room to ascertain how his _protege_ was +progressing, and found him more comfortable than he had anticipated, +and sleeping quietly under the influence of an anodyne. + +As he stood looking down upon his pale face, he could not help +remarking what a fine little countenance it was. Every feature was +clearly cut, and wonderful intelligence was stamped upon it for one +so young. It was such a pure, innocent face, too, with its fair, open +forehead and straight, symmetrical brows; and Philip sighed as he +remembered his own boyhood, with its careless freedom and untrammeled +conscience. + +Many weeks went by, and the boy still lay upon his bed, too weak and +ill to heed much save the administering of medicines and the dressing +of his mutilated limb. + +But he always greeted Philip when he entered his room with a light in +his eyes which told him more plainly than words how welcome he was, +while his thin hand would creep languidly into his strong clasp, and he +would lie quiet and contented as long as he would sit beside him thus. + +His appetite, too, once more asserted itself, and he partook eagerly +of the many delicacies with which Philip kept him supplied. He became +interested in what was transpiring about him, and then came numerous +and difficult questions. + +This was the one thing of all others which Philip dreaded most, and +he never performed a more difficult task in his life than when he was +compelled at last to tell Eddie Winthrope--for that, he learned, was +his name--that he was an orphan. + +But there was no violent outburst of grief when he made this sad +disclosure. The poor boy gave him one wild look of horror, while his +face blanched to the hue of death, when he was told of his parents’ +sad fate, then he covered his eyes with his hands and shrank beneath +the bedclothes, where he lay so long and so still that Philip became +alarmed. + +“Eddie,” he said, at length, in a husky voice, while he gently +uncovered the white face, “it is very, very sad for you, I know, and +I have suffered more than I can tell you, knowing that I must relate +the circumstances to you; but you must try to bear it as bravely as +possible, and try to feel that it was so much better for them to be +taken in a moment of time, instead of having to linger, mangled, +bruised, and torn, for an indefinite period, and perhaps be rendered +useless for the remainder of their lives. They could not have suffered +much, for death must have been almost instantaneous, and clasped in +each other’s arms, they looked as if they were asleep.” + +Then he went on to tell how kind hands had prepared them for their last +resting-place--a pleasant spot in a quiet cemetery out of the city, and +where the broad branches of a venerable beech tree shaded the new-made +graves. + +He did not tell him then, that he had attended to all this--purchased +this lovely spot, and followed the friendless couple to their last +home, and borne all the attendant expenses. But such was the case, +and it was one of the grand acts with which he commenced this new era +of his life--one of the first fruits testifying to the strength and +sincerity of the new purpose within him. + +Poor Eddie listened in helpless silence to the sad tale, and when +Philip at length concluded, he lifted a pair of pitiful, appealing eyes +to his face, and moaned: + +“Oh, I know they cannot come back, and heaven must be beautiful to +them, to go there together; but what will become of me, without my +father or mother, and only one foot to go through the world with?” + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV. + +A “LADY BORN.” + + +“Have you no relatives anywhere?” Philip asked, when his little charge +had grown more calm. + +“No, sir,” he answered, “I do not know of anybody in the world who +belongs to either father or mother who would care anything for me.” + +Philip’s face lighted; if he took the boy to rear and educate he would +prefer not to be hampered by relatives--it would be much better and +pleasanter for both of them to have no one to interfere with their +plans or to criticise their movements. + +“I am sure, sir, I don’t know what I am going to do,” pursued the boy, +plaintively. “I suppose I could work when I get well, if I only knew +what to do; but it will be rather hard to get around with only one +foot; and--it will take me a long time to pay up all I shall owe for +the doctor, and the nurse, and----” + +“Eddie,” Philip interrupted, moved almost to tears by this evidence of +his instinctive honor, “how would you like to give yourself to me and +be my boy? I, too,” he added, with a keen pain at his heart, “have no +one in the world who care anything for me. I, too, am all alone. Would +you be willing to let me adopt you?” + +“What, sir! would you be willing to take a boy like me? Why, I shall be +nothing but a cripple all my life, and not good for very much!” the boy +exclaimed, raising himself on his elbow, and staring in amazement at +his companion, while his pale face flushed crimson, and he was actually +panting with excitement. + +“Yes, I would not only be ‘willing,’ but very glad if you would consent +to such an arrangement; and don’t be too sure about not being ‘good +for much,’” Philip returned, with a smile. + +“But, sir, I am afraid that you pity me now, and you might be sorry +by and by,” Eddie returned, the flush still on his face, and his eyes +bright with gathering tears. + +Philip reached out and took the thin, trembling hand that lay near him. + +“Will you be my boy until you see that I am beginning to be ‘sorry’?” +he asked, smiling still. + +“You are very good, sir,” Eddie replied, looking up again, and trying +to speak steadily. “I think I should like to stay with you very much; +but----” + +“But what?” Philip asked, encouragingly. + +“You said that you wanted to ‘adopt’ me--that means to make me the same +as your own child, doesn’t it?” + +“Yes.” + +“I know that is very kind,” he pursued, with evident embarrassment, +“but--I don’t think I could quite make up my mind to--to call you +‘father,’ at least, not just yet,” and his lips trembled painfully. + +“I could not ask you to do that,” Philip returned, gently. “You may +call me ‘Uncle Philip,’ if you like; that will suit me better than any +other name, and I will try to make you forget as soon as possible that +I am not really and truly your uncle. Will this arrangement please you?” + +“Yes, indeed, sir. I never expected to feel so happy again over +anything,” the child answered, with a very earnest little face, though +his lips trembled. “It seems strange, though, that anybody should be so +good to me, just when I need it the most. But I will try to be a good +boy and do just as you want me to.” + +And so the weeks lapsed into months, Eddie Winthrope growing better +all the while, under kind and judicious treatment. His pale cheeks +filled out round and full, and grew rosy with health; his injured limb +healed as only healthful childish flesh can heal, and he was not long +in learning how to help himself, and make his well foot do the work of +two, for the other was still very sensitive, and it would be a long +time yet before he could bear to have a false one attached. + +Philip had bought him a strong, but light crutch, and he soon grew very +expert with it, being able to walk as fast as even Philip himself cared +to go. + +And the man was changed, also, in many respects; his nature seemed +to expand, his sympathies were enlarged, his affection broadened and +deepened with the thought and care which he was obliged to exercise +over his young charge, while Eddie, thinking that no one was ever so +grand and noble as “Uncle Philip,” grew to admire and love him more +and more every day. + +As soon as he was able, Philip thought it best for him to resume +his lessons which had been so cruelly interrupted; but until he was +thoroughly strong and well he was unwilling to have him attend any +regular school, and so a competent teacher was secured to come to him +for a few hours each day. + +The boy displayed quite a talent for drawing, and begged that he might +receive instruction in that also. + +“You told me to ask for what I would like, Uncle Philip,” he said, +somewhat timidly, when he preferred this, his first request of any +moment. + +“You shall learn to draw to your heart’s content,” was the ready +response; and a master was forthwith engaged. + + * * * * * + +About this time Arley returned. + +She had traveled eight months with Lady Herbert and her son, instead of +four or five, as they had originally intended. + +Nominally, she was the companion of Lady Herbert, but she was really +regarded more as a friend and equal by them both, while every day of +her stay with them seemed to strengthen their friendship and admiration +for her. + +As soon as they discovered how deftly she handled pencil and brush, +both mother and son advised her to put herself under first-class +instruction. + +It was what she had longed to do ever since she became conscious of the +genius burning within her; but she had lacked the means, besides not +feeling quite sure that her talent was of an order high enough to make +art a profession and give her name to the public unless she could excel +and her standard was high. + +But Lady Herbert said so much, and Sir Charles, in his quiet but +conclusive way, having remarked that it would not be right for her to +slight her gift, she yielded, and during the two months of their stay +in Florence, and the three they were in Rome, she went every day to +paint under the teaching of the best masters that could be found. + +She did not know that these opportunities were made purposely for her, +or that Sir Charles, in arranging with the artists with whom she was to +study, gave them to understand that their terms must be very reasonable +to the young lady, while he would make up the deficiency, if there +should be any. + +This was Lady Herbert’s idea, for she was greatly interested in her +charming _protegee_; but had Arley suspected it, nothing would have +induced her to accept such costly favors. + +So our young artist gave herself enthusiastically to her work, making +such rapid progress that her teachers promised her that some day she +would do something famous; but she did not feel quite easy in her mind, +and often cut her days short to devote herself to Lady Herbert. + +She had told Lady Herbert all her sad story, and found in her a true +sympathizer and counselor; but after it was once related she strove to +hide all her unhappiness within her own heart, and to be always calm, +and even cheerful, in the presence of her friends. + +After leaving Rome, where Arley completed her last picture--and “a +great success for so young an artist,” her master told her--they roamed +from place to place, stopping a few days here, a few days there--never +more than a week anywhere, for Lady Herbert thought her charge +looked thin and not quite as well as she might, and needed change of +scene--and thus Arley missed Elaine’s important communications. + +It was not until they got back to Paris (where Sir Charles had of late +ordered all mail matter to be forwarded) that she received her first +letter relating to her discoveries. The others she never received. + +Sir Charles handed it to her the morning after their arrival, while +they were sitting over their breakfast in Lady Herbert’s parlor. + +She recognized the writing on the envelope at once, and, taking a +little penknife from her pocket, she cut it across the end with an +eager face, but little dreaming how important its contents were. + +But she had not read more than a page or two before the sheets dropped +from her nerveless fingers, and she turned a pale, startled face upon +Lady Herbert. + +“I must go home immediately,” she said, in tremulous tones. + +They had intended remaining a couple of weeks longer in Paris, so that +Arley might have an opportunity to study some paintings in the Louvre, +which her master in Rome had recommended. + +“Dear child, have you bad news in your letter?” Lady Herbert asked, +anxiously, while Sir Charles looked the concern he felt as he observed +her emotion. + +“No, good news,” Arley replied, more steadily; “but it has taken me +so by surprise that I am wholly unprepared for it. You have heard me +speak of my friend, Lady Elaine Warburton; she writes me that she has +had quite an adventure, meeting that woman--Jane Collins, of whom I +have also told you--and through her she has gained the same clew to +my parentage which I learned when I met her in Madrid. It excited a +suspicion in her mind, and she resolved to take the tangled thread in +hand and unravel it, if it was a possible thing. She has succeeded--at +last she has discovered who I am,” and Arley’s cheeks were a flaming +scarlet as she made this announcement. + +“That is as far as I was able to get in my letter,” she resumed. “I was +so startled that I could not go on; but if you will excuse me, I will +go away and finish it, and then come and tell you the result.” + +Lady Herbert gave the desired permission, and Arley left the room. + +But when she reached her own chamber she could not resume her letter at +once; she could only hug it to her throbbing heart, and weep tears of +joy that at last she would know her own place in the world. + +She knew that it would be an honorable place, too, for in one eager, +joyful sentence, Lady Elaine had written: + +“Arley, my darling, rejoice! rejoice! for you are a ‘lady born.’ But +come home quickly, for I must guard this grand secret until I can +whisper it directly into your own ear.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXXV. + +THE GOOD SAMARITAN. + + +“When would you like to go home?” Lady Herbert asked, after Lady +Elaine’s letter had been discussed upon all its points, and seeing that +Arley appeared restless and eager. + +“At once--to-morrow; for see!” pointing to the date, “this letter has +been more than three months coming to me.” + +“True; I am very sorry it should have been so delayed; but we will +make all possible haste now,” Lady Herbert returned, with the utmost +kindness. + +“Oh, do not let me disarrange your plans!” Arley exclaimed, quickly. “I +can go alone--the journey from Paris to Calais is so direct; while it +will not be very much to cross the Channel to Dover, and then go up to +London. You have been so kind and have done so much for me that I do +not feel right to trespass upon you any more.” + +“Hush, dear,” said her companion, reprovingly, “do not ever use that +word to me again; you have never ‘trespassed;’ but I am, too, ready +to go home--I am weary of roving; besides,” she added, with a playful +smile, “my curiosity is on the _qui vive_--I want to learn this +precious secret, too, so that I may rejoice with you. Those words, +‘lady born,’ look very nice on paper, but I am so glad that you have +that assurance, although I have been confident of it from the hour that +I first saw you, and you have proved yourself a lady, in every sense of +the word, during the time that you have been with me, and I have grown +to love you very dearly.” + +Lady Herbert bent forward as she concluded, and kissed Arley tenderly +upon her lips; while she, with something of her old impulsiveness, +threw her arms around her neck and heartily returned the caress. + +Sir Charles appeared as delighted with the news as his mother had been, +and eagerly seconded her proposal to return immediately to England; and +it was therefore arranged that they should leave Paris the next morning. + +Miss McAllister received the wanderer with open arms. + +Arley had telegraphed, as soon as she reached Dover, that she should be +home in a few hours, therefore they were looking for her. + +“My darling, how we have missed you!” the old lady said, tenderly, +as she folded her close in her arms, and tried not to notice the sad +change in the originally bright face, while she did not express the +least surprise that she had come back to her alone. + +But her keen glance had detected trouble the moment she had looked +into her eyes. Besides, her telegram had read: “I shall be home this +evening,” and she had seemed to realize instinctively that something +was very much amiss. + +Nothing could have been sweeter or more winning and affectionate than +Ina Wentworth’s greeting. + +“We are so glad to have you back once more,” she had said, taking both +Arley’s hands, and kissing her fondly, as if “having her back” meant as +much to her as it did to her aunt, and treating her more like a loved +sister rather than like an acquaintance of a few hours. + +Arley felt a glow of affection for her instantly, while she thought the +gentle girl was just as lovely as she could be. + +It seemed as if she had been undergoing some refining process during +the last two years, which had rendered her beauty more delicate and her +manners more winning. + +She had been charmed with her from the first moment of their meeting, +and there was not the slightest feeling of envy or bitterness in her +heart toward her for having so unceremoniously stepped into the home +and fortune which for so many years she had regarded as hers; instead, +she began immediately to love her with an affection almost equal to +that which she had entertained for Miss McAllister. + +After they had taken tea they led her upstairs. + +“You must rest,” Miss McAllister said, with an anxious look at the +face, which was fast losing the color which excitement had for a time +lent it; “it is a hard journey from Paris to London direct, and I know +you are weary.” + +And Arley was glad to obey; but her heart quickened its pulsations as +they passed down the long corridor and finally stopped at the door of +her old room. + +Ina threw it open, and Arley uttered an exclamation as she saw that +everything within was exactly as she had left it--all the little +knickknacks and treasures which she had gathered there as a girl were +in their accustomed places, while it seemed as if not even the fold of +a curtain had been disturbed, it was all so unchanged. + +There was even an old dressing-gown which had been left behind because +a newer and more dainty one had been provided for the bride, hanging +over the back of a chair, and a pair of her very own slippers, with +tiny red velvet bows on the toes, which she remembered so well, were +set before the fire in the grate to warm her feet. + +It was all so natural and homelike that a sense of content and delight +filled her heart; but the next moment she turned to Ina, a vivid flush +on her cheek, a questioning look in her eyes. + +The young girl broke into a low, sweet laugh, and there was a peculiar +charm in it to the returned wanderer. + +“You did not suppose I would ever occupy these rooms, did you?” she +asked, reading Arley’s thought at once. “No, indeed; I begged auntie +to let me have the ones opposite hers, and reserve these just as you +had left them, so that whenever you could spare us time for a little +visit you would feel as if you had got into your own corner in the +home-nest again. We have done nothing to them except to freshen them up +for you; besides,” she added, as she saw that Arley looked troubled and +the tears were gathering in her eyes, “these windows have a southern +prospect, while I am particularly fond of a western view, where I can +have a glorious sunset once in a while, as you know I can have from +those in the blue room. + +“Now, auntie,” she continued, with ready tact, seeing that Arley was +almost ready to break down, and unable to utter a word of appreciation +or thanks, “I am going to run down and send Sarah up to wait upon Arley +just as she used to, and you can come when you are ready. Good-night, +dear,” and bending forward, she kissed Arley, and then quickly left +the room. + +But she did not mean to send Sarah, nor allow any one else to go up +into that chamber for a good while to come. + +She meant to let Arley weep out her full heart uninterrupted, and +unburden all her sorrow to kind, sympathetic Miss McAllister; she knew +that it would have to come sooner or later, and that it would do her +good, so the quicker the better. + +And the door had scarcely closed after her, when the poor child’s +self-possession forsook her entirely, and, throwing herself into Miss +McAllister’s arms in a perfect abandonment of grief, she cried out: + +“Auntie! auntie! I see by your kind, sorry eyes that you almost know +what I have to tell you--my story of sorrow and shame, of my ruined +life, my miserable, wretched mistake.” + +“Hush, dear,” the old lady whispered, soothingly, while she folded her +close to her; “you must not excite yourself thus or you will be ill. +Yes, I knew that something was wrong with you, but just what I could +not imagine. Where is Philip--your husband--Arley?” + +“Oh, auntie, I don’t know,” and the sob that followed these words was +pitiful to hear. + +“You don’t know!” repeated Miss McAllister, in a sort of stupid amaze. + +“No. I have not seen him for almost a year.” + +“Arley!” was the astonished, almost stern ejaculation, in reply to this +dreadful statement. + +“No, auntie; and what is more I never wish to see him again,” Arley +returned, somewhat spiritedly. + +“My child, tell me all about it,” Miss McAllister commanded, when +at length she could get her breath after the shock which Arley’s +revelation had given her. + +And she obeyed, beginning with what had transpired upon her wedding +day, and giving a truthful account of all that she had suffered from +the man who should have been a faithful provider and a tender protector. + +The old lady’s face grew pale and stern as she listened, and she +thanked the fates that she had not made known her intentions regarding +the future disposition of her property before the pair left home. + +She had resolved to settle a handsome income on Arley, after seeing +how nobly she had borne herself upon learning that she was not Captain +Wentworth’s child; she had been almost tempted to do it when she had +sent for Mr. Holley to make over her fortune to Ina; but she rejoiced +now that she had not done so, for she believed that Philip would have +continued to live in idleness, and perhaps ill-treated Arley until this +day. + +Miss McAllister then told Arley how Lady Elaine had come to her to +learn the name of the vessel in which she had been sent home from +India; how she had asked for something that she had worn at that time, +and then taken away the little shoes and stockings, and emerald ring, +hoping that they might aid her in her search. + +“I am afraid that I have no father and mother living. I am afraid there +will be no one to own and love me in my new position, whatever that +may be; for if there had been she would never have kept this secret to +herself. She would have been in duty bound to tell my relatives, and +they would naturally have come to you to learn more about me,” Arley +said, somewhat dejectedly. + +“You will have just as many to love you as you have always had, even +if you find no new relatives,” Miss McAllister replied, kissing her +tenderly. “You still belong to me, and will always be bound to me +by the deep love which we have for each other, and your home shall +henceforth be here, just the same as it used to be, and we will try to +make you forget these last two years that have been so fraught with +unhappiness to you. We will be as happy as possible while we are spared +to each other; and when I am gone, perhaps you and Ina will love each +other well enough to keep on in the old home together----” + +Arley stopped those aged lips, which were tremulous with emotion, with +a soft touch of her fingers. + +“Auntie,” she said, appealingly, “don’t speak of anything like that +to-night. I have but just got home to you, and I do not want to think +of another parting.” + +“Oh!” she continued, with a fond look, while she leaned against Miss +McAllister’s shoulder, “I believe I never loved you half as well in +the old days as I do now--at least, I did not realize it then as now. +And how kind it was of you and Ina to keep my rooms for me! It gives +me such a restful, peaceful feeling to be here once more. I am like +a tired child who has been lost for a long time and then found and +carried back to its father’s house.” + +“Dear child! and we are so glad to have you here!” murmured Miss +McAllister, with fast-falling tears. + +“I believe you are,” was the contented response, “and Ina, too. How +lovely she is!” + +“She is, indeed in both form and spirit; she has done everything since +you went away to fill your place; she learned from the servants all +that you were accustomed to do for me, and it has been really touching +to see how faithful she has been in the performance of every duty.” + +“I am so glad; if she had been disagreeable or unlovely I am +afraid I should have found it hard to forgive her for stepping so +unceremoniously into my place,” Arley said, with a little flash of her +old spirit. + +“But,” she added, a moment later, “I believe I am very impatient. I +can hardly wait for morning to come, I am so anxious to learn the +mysterious secret of my identity. Where is Elaine stopping?” + +“At the Langham. Sir Anthony came to London intending to remain only +a short time, or until his business was completed; but Lady Hamilton +has enjoyed the excitement of the city and seems to dread going back +to Hazelmere, where she misses her son so much, so they have remained +here until now. I will send William to tell Lady Elaine of your arrival +the first thing in the morning, for you shall not be kept in suspense a +moment longer than is absolutely necessary.” + +“Thank you, auntie. Poor Elaine! what trouble she has had since I went +away,” Arley sighed, “how much sorrow there is in the world.” + +“That is true, dear,” gravely returned Miss McAllister, “but sometimes +our greatest blessings grow out of our heaviest sorrows.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVI. + +THE STRANGE LETTER. + + +True to her promise, Miss McAllister sent a messenger early the next +morning to inform Lady Elaine of Arley’s return; but to the great +disappointment of the whole family, he brought back word that Lady +Hamilton, accompanied by Lady Elaine, had gone to Hazelmere for a +couple of days, to give directions regarding the refurnishing of the +rooms. + +But Sir Anthony was delighted to hear of her arrival, and sent a +message, saying that he should come to see her as soon as he had +finished his breakfast; and he was as good as his word, for in less +than an hour he was in Miss McAllister’s parlor, and his face betrayed +genuine pleasure as he greeted Arley, for she had been quite a favorite +with him at Hazelmere. + +“Well, well, Miss Arley--excuse me--Mrs. Paxton,” he said, shaking her +warmly by the hand, “it really does me good to see you again. But how +you have changed! For the better, if you will allow me to say it.” + +And his eyes roved admiringly from her flushed, smiling face over her +fine, graceful figure. + +“And so you have concluded to let your husband come home and extend +your travels--these husbands have to attend to business in order to +make money for their wives to spend, eh?” he continued, jocosely. “Ah! +you needn’t blush about it, child; it was all right enough for you +to see more of the world, if you could stand it to be separated from +that handsome chap. Philip told me all about it--said you had met some +friends who were going to take you about more. He--Philip--was quite +neighborly for a while after his return; he used to come down to spend +an evening with us, and play chess with mother, but I haven’t seen +him at all lately; some one told me, though, that he was overrun with +business, so I suppose he hasn’t had time to visit. However, I suppose +you know all about it, and he must be glad enough to have you at home +once more.” + +Arley was amazed. + +She had grown hot and cold by turns as Sir Anthony rattled off this +long speech, and she was thankful enough that he was inclined to do all +the talking, for if he had asked her a direct question she could not +have answered it to save her life. + +Philip back in London and hard at work--overrun with business! + +She could scarcely credit it. She did not know what it could mean. + +He had been a visitor, too, it seemed, at the Langham, calling freely +upon the Hamiltons and Lady Elaine, while, strangest of all, he had +allowed them to believe--so she gathered from Sir Anthony’s words--that +everything was all right between him and his wife--that he had merely +returned on account of business, while she had remained abroad for the +sake of seeing more of the world. + +She was actually stricken dumb for the time, when, happening to glance +at Miss McAllister, she saw she was as astonished as herself, for a +perfectly blank expression had settled upon her face. + +This warned her that she must make some effort to reply to Sir Anthony, +or he would see that something was amiss, and be making uncomfortable +inquiries, which would necessitate disagreeable explanations. + +Giving her aunt a significant glance, she turned with a smile to her +visitor, and said: + +“Yes, Sir Anthony, I have done considerable traveling since I saw you +last, and have seen a good deal of the Continent. I met Sir Charles +Herbert and his mother when I was in Madrid, and they kindly offered to +take care of me if I would travel with them for a few months longer.” + +“Sir Charles Herbert! I know him--or at least I used to know his father +well. Lady Herbert is a splendid woman, and her son, as I remember +him--a fine lad--gave promise of being a noble man.” + +Sir Anthony sighed heavily as he concluded, and his face grew very sad. + +Arley knew that he was thinking of Wil, who would have compared +favorably with any young man in the kingdom; but she was glad to have +the subject changed, and returned: + +“Yes, they are very pleasant people, and I enjoyed their society +exceedingly; but tell me something about yourselves; Lady Hamilton is +well, I trust.” + +“Yes, she is in good health, but she is not like herself yet; our +hearts have been almost broken since you went away,” and the bereaved +father broke down entirely as he said this. + +“I know,” Arley murmured, the tears starting quickly to her eyes; +“Annie wrote me about your sad trouble. Dear Sir Anthony,” she added +tremulously, “if Wil had been my own brother I could not have grieved +more for him; and poor Elaine! what a blow it must be to her!” + +“Ah! yes; but she is a pure-hearted saint, if there ever was one,” Sir +Anthony returned, patiently, wiping the tears which would roll down +his furrowed cheeks. “I’m sure I don’t know what we ever should have +done without her--she has been almost son and daughter both to us. Lady +Hamilton feels as if she cannot bear to have her out of sight, though +sometimes I’m afraid we are selfish and trespass upon her goodness +more than we ought. She will be delighted to learn of your return, I +expect,” he added, forcing a smile to his still trembling lips; “when +we hear the wonderful secret which she has been keeping for you, we +shall all be greatly astonished.” + +“Do you know anything about it?” questioned Arley, eagerly. + +“Not a word more than the fact that she has succeeded in establishing +your identity beyond dispute; she affirms that no one shall know +anything about it until after she has told you.” + +“I must confess that I am very impatient,” said Arley, with a +long-drawn sigh. + +“Well, your patience won’t be taxed so very long; they will return +to-morrow, and then we must all make up our minds to be astonished. +We know this much,” Sir Anthony added, with a twinkle in his eyes, +“that you are a ‘lady born’--who knows but what you may prove to be a +princess?” + +“Now, Sir Anthony, you are laughing at me! that is an absurd idea,” +Arley retorted, with something like an old-time pout. + +“Well, whoever you are, I hope you will not be beyond the reach of +your old friends, for we all have been very fond of you,” he answered, +kindly. + +“Never fear that; my old friends have proved themselves too true for +me to ever wish to get beyond them; there are not many who would have +been so steadfast as you all have been in my adversity,” she returned, +feelingly. + +“Tut, tut, my child; your friends were very proud of you, after the +noble renunciation which you made. I know of no one of whom I am so +fond, after my own two dear girls, as I am of you, my fair ‘Rose of +Wentworth.’” + +Arley smiled and blushed, then sighed at the sound of that old familiar +name. + +“You forget,” she said, “that I am not entitled to that name any more.” + +“Yes, I did forget,” Sir Anthony replied, “but no matter; doubtless you +have not forgotten that old couplet, which, by the way, fits in exactly +here: + + ‘What’s in a name? that which we call a rose + By any other name would smell as sweet.’ + +But I must go,” he added, rising. “I have an appointment in Piccadilly +at twelve, and it is half-past eleven now. I shall send Lady Elaine +around just as soon as she returns, and you must tell Philip to bring +you up to the Langham as often as possible. We do not go down to +Hazelmere for another month yet; when we do we shall want you to come +for a long visit.” + +“Thanks,” Arley said, with rising color at the mention of Philip’s +name; “you may be sure that I shall come to see Lady Hamilton very +soon; give my love to her, and come again yourself, Sir Anthony, to see +me.” + +She had hard work not to look guilty, while her heart was beating like +a trip hammer in her bosom. + +But Sir Anthony did not appear to mistrust that anything was wrong, +and, after shaking hands all around, and inviting both Miss McAllister +and Ina to visit them, he took his leave. + +“Auntie, what does it all mean?” Arley exclaimed, losing all her +brilliant color and sinking weakly into a chair the moment the door +closed after him. “Philip back in London and at work! while no one +mistrusts the truth regarding us; but, according to Sir Anthony’s +account, every one believes that I have been traveling merely for my +own pleasure, and with his knowledge and consent.” + +“It is pretty evident to me what it means,” Miss McAllister replied, +severely. “He has probably managed to learn what the rest of us +know--that the mystery of your birth has been solved, and that you are +a ‘lady born,’ as your friend has chosen to put it. Perhaps he hopes +that you will come into an independent fortune with your new position, +and expects that you will forgive him and allow him to share it.” + +“I don’t know,” Arley answered, musingly. + +“I hope, however,” her aunt resumed, with an uneasy glance at the +grave, thoughtful face, “that you will not be so foolish as to do +anything of the kind. You have suffered enough already at his hands.” + +“Auntie, I must confess that I don’t feel very much like forgiving +him,” and she shivered slightly; “but I don’t imagine that I am going +to be very much of an heiress,” she added, with a smile. “I fear I +shall be ‘Poor Arley’ still; but if you will let me stay with you--that +is, if no peremptory duties call me elsewhere--I shall feel very +grateful and content.” + +“Child!” and Miss McAllister choked over the word, and winked hard to +keep the tears back; “you ought not to talk to me like that. Do you not +know that I love you dearly, and nothing could make me happier than to +keep you with us?--eh, Ina?” and she turned almost sharply to the young +girl, to hide her emotion. + +Ina arose, without a word, and, crossing the room, knelt by Arley’s +side. + +“How I wish that you were my sister!” she said, lifting her grave, +sweet eyes to the troubled face. “Just think what my life has been--how +few I have had to love me! I am so glad that you wish to stay with us! +Let us imagine ourselves auntie’s girls, and forget, if we can, that +you ever went away from the home that you loved so well.” + +Arley bent down and kissed the fair, upturned forehead. + +“One could not help loving you if one should try ever so hard,” she +said, smiling through her tears. But before she could say more a +servant entered, bearing a package, which she gave to Arley and then +withdrew. + +One glance at the address drove every particle of color from her face; +for there, in Philip’s clear, bold hand, was written her full name, +“Mrs. Philip Paxton.” + +Her first thought was that it contained legal papers dissolving the +bonds which united her to him. She thought that he had doubtless been +employing his time since his return to England in securing the divorce +which he failed to obtain in Madrid, and now, having heard of her +arrival, had sent to notify her of the fact. + +“Auntie! it is from him!” she gasped, lifting a frightened glance to +Miss McAllister’s face, while the package slipped from her nerveless +fingers into her lap, and she leaned weakly back in her chair. + +“Throw it into the fire, child, if you do not wish to open it,” was her +grim response. + +That morning’s paper had given a list of the passengers who had crossed +the Channel from Calais to Dover the day before, and he read the names +of Sir Charles and Lady Herbert, and Mrs. Philip Paxton, among them. + +He knew instantly that the time for his confession had come, and, +with a very white, set face, he took that package from his safe, and, +giving it into the hands of a trusty messenger, dispatched it to Miss +McAllister’s residence, where he felt quite sure Arley would be found. + +“I wonder what this is; it feels like a box,” Arley said, gathering +courage to lift it from her lap, and fingering it curiously. + +Miss McAllister, fearing that she might be betrayed into further +indiscretions of speech, arose and left the room without making any +reply. + +“I am going, too, dear,” Ina said, rising to follow, “so take your +own time to examine your package, and I will see that you are not +disturbed.” + +“What a dear she is--so kind and thoughtful for others, and yet so +unassuming,” Arley murmured, as the door closed after the lovely girl. + +With trembling fingers she removed the wrapper from her package and +found a small box, with quite a bulky letter within. + +She opened the letter first, and as she did so two bank-notes, one for +a hundred, the other for twenty pounds, fluttered into her lap. + +A startled cry broke from her at the sight of them, and all the blood +in her body seemed for a moment to rush into her face, making her ears +ring and her head dizzy. + +Then a look of horror came into her eyes as Miss McAllister’s excited +assertion: “He stole it--I know he did,” flashed into her mind. + +With a wildly beating heart and panting breath she broke asunder the +ribbon which bound the box, lifted the cover, and lo! her own lost +jewels lay before her. + +It was true, then--he had been the thief, after all; and, with a low, +shuddering cry, she dashed them down, covered her face with her hands +and broke into nervous weeping. + +She would almost rather never have recovered those keepsakes, precious +though they were, than to have learned this bitter, humiliating +truth--to have discovered that the man to whom she had surrendered her +fondest affections was no better than a common thief. + +She then unfolded those closely-written sheets--her face as colorless +as the paper itself, her lips set in a tight, livid line, a cold, +steely glitter in her eyes--and commenced to read. + +But by and by her brow began to relax its rigid lines; a softer light +shone in her dark eyes, and--reading still further on--her inflexible +lips seemed slightly less stern and even grew tremulous, and when at +length she came to those last appealing lines, where Philip begged +her to “let a little divine compassion into her heart and breathe one +single prayer for him,” she broke down again and sobbed like a grieved +and wounded child. + +It was like a warm spring rain, after the frost, and ice, and snow of +the dismal winter, mellowing and enriching her hardened heart, as the +earth is mellowed and enriched, and made once again to yield forth the +treasures so long hidden within its bosom. + +“It is a strange, strange letter,” Arley sighed, as she folded and +returned it to the envelope, “and it makes me feel very strangely--it +arouses anew all my former bitterness, anger and scorn, while at the +same time I am moved to the deepest pity.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVII. + +IN A DILEMMA. + + +“I am glad, at all events, to get my jewels back,” she added, as she +eyed them fondly, lifting each piece with tender, caressing fingers, +and recalling the friends who had given them to her. “But this money, +what shall I do with it? The hundred pounds rightly belongs to me, +and I shall keep it; but the other--the ‘interest,’ as he calls it--I +believe--I do not want; and as for that which he has deposited in the +Bank of England in my name, I could never touch a penny of it.” + +Her eyes blazed at the thought of it, her head was thrown proudly back, +and her lips curled with derision. + +The hundred-pound note she put away in her purse, the other she +returned to the envelope containing Philip’s letter, and then she +fell to musing sorrowfully, and was only aroused when Miss McAllister +returned after a long absence, during which she had been in a continual +ferment of anxiety and curiosity regarding the contents of Philip +Paxton’s package. + +Arley arose as she entered, and, putting her letter into her hands, +begged her to read it. + +Scarcely a sound, save the rattling of the paper, as Miss McAllister +turned the pages of Philip’s letter was heard in the room during the +next half-hour. + +Miss McAllister sat bolt upright by a window, with lowering brow, +stern, relentless eyes, and firmly compressed lips. + +Arley lay wearily back in her low rocker by the fire, her hands clasped +patiently in her lap, but looking very pale and sorrowful. + +“Well, auntie, what do you think of it?” she questioned, when that lady +at last refolded Philip’s confession, and handed it back to her. + +“That he is even a greater rascal than I believed him to be--and that +was bad enough, goodness knows!” was the grim reply. + +Arley flushed. + +She could think all manner of hard things of him herself, but it seemed +very harsh when put into such severe language by another. + +“But he seems sorry,” she said, hesitatingly. + +Miss McAllister eyed the pretty figure opposite her uneasily. + +“I hope,” she said, coldly, “that you are not meditating anything so +foolish as to forgive him and take him back to your favor? I should +suppose that once having released yourself from the lion’s power, you +would not be very eager to put your head between his jaws again.” + +“No; I’m afraid that I can’t forgive him, auntie----” + +“Afraid!” was the startled interruption. + +“Yes. You know we are commanded to ‘forgive, as we hope to be +forgiven,’” Arley murmured, in a low tone. + +“Of course--of course; no Christian should cherish malice, or wish evil +to any one; but this is a peculiar case. You are not obliged to wish +for any special judgment to overtake Philip--you can simply drop him +altogether out of your life.” + +“Yes; those wretched months are still too fresh in my mind to admit +of my wishing him to have any part in my future,” and Arley shivered +slightly. “But if he really feels as remorseful as his letter seems to +indicate, I would at least like to render him all the credit that is +his due.” + +“Precious little due him, in my opinion,” was the severe retort, and +there the matter dropped. + +Events crowded thick and fast upon the returned wanderer, for during +the next forenoon Mr. Holley, Arley’s former lawyer, was announced. + +“Well, well, Mrs. Arley,” he said, jovially, as he warmly grasped her +hand, “it does my old eyes good to see you home once more. Mr. Paxton +sent me up word last night that you had returned, and as I promised to +transact a little business for him when you came, I thought I’d settle +it at once; and you may be sure I was very glad of the opportunity to +come and welcome you home.” + +What could be coming now? Arley wondered, clasping her hands so tightly +that the nails left deep, purple marks upon them for long afterward. + +“Mr. Paxton waited upon me some time ago,” the lawyer resumed, +“and told me that he had settled a sum upon you--twenty thousand +pounds--depositing the money in the Bank of England, and he desired +that I would take charge of it, as I had done of your money in the +past, and pay you the interest quarterly, as before. He said that he +had made this arrangement, so that you might have the same feeling of +independence that you used to have, while he wished you to be provided +for in case of any accident occurring to him. I need not tell you +that I am very proud to be restored to my old position as your man of +business, or that it is with great pleasure that I pay over this first +quarterly installment to you--Mr. Paxton notified me of your return +last night--and you may be sure that I shall make prompt payments every +quarter-day.” + +Mr. Holley reached forward and slipped a roll of bills into Arley’s +hands as he ceased speaking. + +She felt as if she should sink through the floor, as he crowded that +money upon her. + +Her first impulse was to dash it angrily back into the man’s face and +bid him carry it back to its donor. + +But, as she reasoned, he was in total ignorance of the truth of her +relations to Philip--everything that he had said went to prove it--and +if she rejected the money she would be obliged to explain why, and +reveal the whole of her dreadful story. + +It was evident that Mr. Holley believed, as Sir Anthony had appeared +to do, that she and her husband were upon the most amiable terms with +each other; and it was also evident that Philip was rigidly concealing +everything which would tend to create any scandal, thus leaving her, +as he had told her in his letter that he should do, to take whatever +steps against him she might see fit. + +What should she do? + +That money seemed like a live coal in her hands; and she knew, with her +present feelings, that she could never use so much as a farthing of it; +and yet, if she gave it back to Mr. Holley, she must give him a reason, +and she recoiled from rehearsing her troubles to any one outside the +family. + +Miss McAllister’s face had grown black with wrath over this strange +proceeding; but she was obliged to hold her tongue, knowing that any +interference on her part would be unseemly, at least in the presence of +a third person. + +But the lawyer was waiting for Arley to say something, his face all +smiles and aglow with heartiest sympathy for her good fortune, as he +regarded it, and she knew that she must make him some reply. + +“Really, Mr. Holley,” she began, with a crimson face, “this is a +surprise to me----” + +“What! Has not your husband told you anything about it? Has he left me +to enlighten you upon the subject?” interrupted the lawyer, astonished. + +Arley’s heart leaped into her throat. It was very hard to know just +what it was best to say. + +“He did mention that he had deposited some money in the Bank of England +for me; but I had no idea that I was to receive such a sum as you +mention, and really,” she added, with a nervous, almost hysterical, +laugh, “I have regarded myself as portionless for so long that I fear I +shall not know how to behave, with all this wealth at my command.” + +“I do not believe you will have any difficulty regarding the disposal +of it,” Miss McAllister interposed, in a dry tone. + +“I am sure you deserve it all, my dear,” Mr. Holley replied, never once +suspecting the point of the venerable spinster’s remark. “There has +been a sore spot in my heart ever since your marriage that you were +obliged to relinquish that snug little income to which you had always +been accustomed, though I admire Miss Wentworth exceedingly, and I am +very happy to serve her. But I was always fond of you, Mrs. Arley, and +I am heartily glad that you are to be independent once more, while I +admire your husband for having done this thing.” + +And after a few more words, Mr. Holley took his departure. + +“About this money,” said Miss McAllister, quietly, “if you don’t +like to refuse to take it from Mr. Holley, you can inclose it in an +envelope and return it to Philip every quarter.” + +“Yes, I could do that--at least for the present,” Arley said, with a +look of relief. “Of course, after a while, when people come to see that +we are never together, the truth will leak out, and then I can stop the +payments.” + +She went at once to act upon Miss McAllister’s suggestion, and with a +hand that was far from steady, she inclosed the sum Mr. Holley had paid +her, together with the twenty-pound note Philip had already sent her as +interest on her hundred pounds, in an envelope, directed it to him at +his chambers, and sent it off at once. + +That evening Sir Charles and his mother called, and were most cordially +received by Miss McAllister. + +After introducing her aunt, Arley led Ina to Lady Herbert, saying +smilingly: + +“This is the real Arley Wentworth, of whom I have told you, and whose +golden slippers I wore so long.” + +Her ladyship studied the fair face a moment, then said, as she took the +gentle girl by the hand: + +“Well, dear, since you had to give them up, I am sure you must have +been glad to resign them to one so worthy.” + +“Indeed I was,” Arley replied, heartily, and then she presented Ina to +Sir Charles. + +As she did so she noted the eager, admiring glance which the young +baronet bestowed upon her, and also the faint flush which stole into +the beautiful girl’s cheek, and the shy drooping of her white lids +after her first glance into his noble face. + +“They will love each other,” she said to herself, with sudden +conviction; “and, oh, how well fitted they are for each other--he so +grand and true, she so gentle and lovable.” + +It did, indeed, seem as if her prophecy was likely to come true, for +Sir Charles had neither eyes nor ears for any one else throughout his +call. + +He hardy noticed Arley after their first greeting, until his mother +arose to go; then he seemed to suddenly remember his errand there. + +“Mrs. Paxton,” he said, “I have succeeded in securing a place for your +pictures at the exhibition.” + +“So soon?” cried Arley, astonished; but her face lighted with genuine +pleasure. + +“It must be ‘soon’ or not at all, you know,” he returned, “for it opens +to-morrow.” + +“True. I had forgotten. How do they look? Have they a good light?” + +“The best that they could possibly have. I was very fortunate, and +they present a fine appearance, I assure you. An artist,” he explained, +“was expected to bring two very fine pictures from Paris, but a +telegram was received last night stating that they had been destroyed +by fire, so the places reserved for them could be given to others. I +was the first applicant this morning, and so secured the vacant space.” + +“You must come and stay a month with me, dear, just as soon as your +friends can spare you,” her ladyship whispered in Arley’s ear, as she +kissed her at parting. “You have been with me so long, and I have +learned to love you so well, I miss you sadly.” + +“Thank you,” Arley returned, with trembling lips. “I do not know what +would ever have become of me but for you.” + +“Some other fortunate individual would have secured your companionship, +and I should have missed a great deal out of my life,” responded Lady +Herbert, cheerfully; and then, with another kiss, followed her son to +their carriage. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVIII. + +ARLEY’S AMAZEMENT. + + +A great disappointment came to Arley soon after Sir Charles and Lady +Herbert’s departure. + +A note was brought to her from Sir Anthony Hamilton saying that he had +just received a letter from Lady Hamilton containing the intelligence +that the housekeeper at Hazelmere was ill, consequently everything was +going wrong, and she and Lady Elaine would be obliged to remain a week +longer at least. + +Sir Anthony wrote that he was very sorry, and if Arley felt that +she could not wait that time to learn the precious secret, he would +telegraph Lady Elaine of her return, and she could come immediately up +to London, and leave his wife to attend to the home difficulties. + +At first Arley thought that she could not wait a whole week, and +perhaps longer, before having the tantalizing mystery solved. + +But remembering how Lady Hamilton clung to Lady Elaine, she said: + +“I will not be so childish--‘good news will keep;’ I will be patient +and wait until they see fit to return.” + +Accordingly she sat down and replied to Sir Anthony’s note to that +effect, telling him to do nothing to disarrange his wife’s plans--to +let them take their own time, and she would try to be content. + +Three days later she went to the art gallery to see her pictures. + +She had chosen an hour when she thought the fewest people of her +acquaintance would be abroad, and she saw no one anywhere whom she +knew. She wandered about for an hour or more, visiting the different +rooms, and examining the pictures, and finally came back to take one +more look at her own before going home. + +The room just then was almost deserted; there was only a young lad +there, and he was standing before one of her pictures, pencil and paper +in hand, trying to sketch its outlines to take away with him. + +Arley was attracted by his bright and intelligent, though rather pale, +face, at once; and she noticed, with a thrill of sympathy, that he had +one foot, and walked, or rather leaned upon a crutch. + +Of course it was none other than Eddie Winthrope. + +Dearly loving everything connected with art, he had asked Philip if he +might attend the exhibition, and he had replied by presenting him with +a season ticket, greatly to his delight, and after that he was scarcely +visible all day long, disappearing about nine in the morning, and +hurrying away to the art gallery, where he would remain absorbed in its +treasures until it grew too dark to see. + +He always went provided with pencil and sketchbook, and if anything +particularly struck his fancy, he would make an attempt to copy it, and +then amused himself during the evening after his return, by trying to +fill in and do the shading, and thus try to describe to Philip what he +had seen during the day. + +Thus Arley found him on the third day of the exhibition intent upon +trying to make an outline sketch of one of her pictures. + +She pretended not to notice him, but in passing him she glanced over +his shoulder, with a smile of amusement, expecting to see a shapeless +contortion of her work, but she was surprised to find his copy assuming +quite a correct likeness to the original. + +Actuated by an irresistible impulse, she stopped and said, kindly: + +“My boy, you use your pencil very deftly; will you allow me to look at +what you are doing?” + +Arley had put up her veil when she saw how nearly empty the room was, +and Eddie, turning quickly at the sound of her voice, looked up into +what he thought was the most beautiful face that he had ever seen in +his life. + +He flushed with both pleasure and shyness at her request, and clung to +his drawing hesitatingly. + +“It is nothing,” he stammered; “of course, I cannot do it nicely, but +it is so pretty,” with a longing glance at Arley’s picture, “that I +wanted something to remember it by.” + +“Please let me see,” Arley said. + +And he reluctantly yielded it up into her outstretched hand. + +“Who taught you to draw?” she asked, seeing native talent in every +stroke of his pencil. + +“I began to learn at school,” Eddie replied, “then father bought me a +‘guide to art,’ and that helped me a great deal; but since I have been +sick and could not go about much,” with a sigh and a glance at where +his missing foot should have been, “Uncle Philip has let me have a +teacher at home.” + +Arley caught her breath; the familiar name was like a stab, even though +she had no suspicion that it belonged to any one whom she knew. + +“Do you love to draw?” she asked. + +“Oh, yes’m,” he replied, with an enthusiastic emphasis that made her +smile. + +“So do I. Would you like me to help you a little on this, so that you +can carry it home more complete?” + +Again a vivid flush swept over the boy’s pale face, and this time it +was one of pleasure. + +“Yes’m, I should like it, if--if it would not be too much trouble.” + +“No; I should like to do it for you. You perceive,” she added, taking +his pencil and book from him, “that you have made the lines here too +heavy, while here in the foreground this figure is not prominent +enough--here you want the shading dark, and here a little lighter; see?” + +She worked rapidly while she pointed out these defects to him, and the +boy’s face glowed as he watched her, and saw the picture grow beneath +her graceful touch. + +“Oh, how different you have made it look already!” he said, +delightedly; then he added, with a sigh: “I’m afraid I shall never make +an artist, I am so clumsy.” + +“Indeed, you are not clumsy at all,” Arley returned, heartily. “I think +you do remarkably well. I have seen a good many people, older than you, +too, and imagining themselves quite proficient, who could not make so +true a copy of a picture as you have done. Should you like to be an +artist?” + +“That is what I mean to be; and if I ever am able to paint a picture +as pretty as that, I believe I shall be perfectly happy,” he returned, +earnestly. + +Arley smiled somewhat bitterly, and replied, almost before she knew +what she was saying: + +“That is a pretty strong statement, my boy; for I painted that picture; +but I am not perfectly happy by any means.” + +“You? Oh, did you do that?” Eddie cried, his face almost radiant. “I +am so glad that you have told me; I have wished that I might know who +painted it, and there is no card anywhere to tell.” + +Arley colored with vexation, and then laughed. She had spoken out +unconsciously. + +“It was rather foolish in me to tell you of it, since I wished to +remain _incognito_; however, as you do not know my name, it will not +matter much.” + +Eddie looked as if he would like to ask her name, but dare not after +what she had said; so he watched her pretty hand as it glided over his +sketch, and said nothing. + +She worked away in silence for a few moments longer, and then handed +it to him, greatly improved; in fact, she had made a charming little +picture of it. + +“There, perhaps that will help you to remember my painting, since you +like it so much,” she said, smiling, as she gave it to him. + +“Thank you very much,” he said, earnestly, and so delighted that the +tears actually sprang to his eyes. + +“Do you come here often?” she asked, as she drew on her glove. + +“Yes, every day, and I stay almost all day, too,” the boy replied. +“When Uncle Philip found that I wanted to come, he gave me a season +ticket, and,” with a smile, “I mean to make the most of it.” + +“That is right,” Arley said, smiling back into his eager face, and +thinking what an interesting lad he was; “it will do you good to study +the pictures here. Now, good-by, and perhaps I shall see you again, for +I may come some other day myself.” + +“I hope you will,” Eddie returned, wistfully; and he stood looking +after her until she disappeared from sight. + +“How proud that child is of his ‘Uncle Philip,’” Arley thought, as she +made her way out of the building, “for every other sentence was full +of him and his virtues. Why could not Philip Paxton have been such a +man,” her despairing heart cried out, “when almost every other whom it +has been my privilege to know has been so noble and true? Sir Charles, +Sir Anthony, Wil, and now this boy’s uncle, who bears the same name, is +held up before me as a model of perfection.” + +A bitter sigh escaped her, and she felt as if her lot was very hard. + +The next day she went to see Jane Collins--Miss McAllister having +learned where she lived from Lady Elaine--and the woman appeared as +glad to see her as if she had been a long-absent child of her own. + +After chatting a while, Arley arose to go, and as she said good-by, she +laid an envelope on the woman’s lap. + +“I have not forgotten your generous loan, Mrs. Collins, with all the +rest of your kindness, and you will find the sum, with interest, in +this; and, believe me, I shall never cease to be grateful to you,” she +said, with tears in her eyes. + +“Lor’, miss, I couldn’t take no interest,” Jane began, growing painfully +crimson, and looking suspiciously at the envelope. + +“Well, call it a little gift of remembrance, then,” Arley said, +smiling, “and if you do not wish to use it for yourself, get your +husband something nice with it. Good-by again. I shall come often to +see you now,” and without waiting for any reply, she went away. + +Mrs. Collins examined the contents of the envelope after she had gone, +and found fifty pounds--just double the amount she had lent Arley in +her necessity. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIX. + +LADY ALICE. + + +A day or two after her visit to Jane Collins, Arley was impelled to go +to the art exhibition. + +She had thought much about the pale, intellectual boy, and she felt +herself growing unaccountably interested in the poor little cripple. + +Perhaps it was because of his condition, and the fact that he was an +orphan, which appealed to her sympathies; or it might be on account of +his evident love for art; at all events, she hoped she would meet him +again, and she found herself looking eagerly about for him in every +room that she entered. + +She spent two or three hours in the galleries, but without catching +sight of her new little friend, and she had at length come to the +conclusion that he was not there at all, and, with a feeling of +disappointment, was about to take her own departure, when she suddenly +espied him in a small room, sitting upon a box behind a huge easel, as +if he desired to escape observation, and working away in his sketchbook +most diligently. + +“Ah! I have found you at last,” Arley said, in a low, eager tone, as +she bent over his shoulder to see what he was engaged upon. “I have +been looking for you this long time.” + +“Have you?” Eddie cried, lifting a bright, flushed face to her, while +he might have told her that he had anxiously scanned every face there +for several days in the hope of seeing her again. + +“Yes, I have; and, do you know, I went away the other day without +asking your name, and so I’ve been obliged to think of you as ‘that +boy’ ever since,” Arley said, with a musical laugh. + +“My name is Eddie Winthrope.” + +“Thank you, Eddie,” she returned, “and your uncle?” + +“Oh, he isn’t my uncle really, you know.” + +“Not your uncle!” Arley cried, with a sudden thrill. + +“No, but you are almost a stranger to me, and perhaps you wouldn’t +care anything about it,” Eddie said, beginning to feel as if he was +thrusting his story upon her. + +“Oh, yes I do care; please tell me. I always love to know about people +who are kind and good,” Arley returned. + +Then the boy told of the accident and of how he had been adopted. + +Arley felt very strangely while listening to the boy’s story, and the +thought had flashed upon her, “what if he should prove to be Philip +Paxton?” + +Then she scorned the idea, for there was not the least similarity of +character between him and this good man of whom she had just been told; +it could not be possible that it was Philip. + +“I tried to have him come here with me to-day,” Eddie resumed, “for he +was not able to go to his office; he had an ill turn a few days ago, +and does not seem to get over it.” + +“An ill turn!” Arley repeated, absently. + +“Yes; the other night we were sitting together, and the postman brought +him a letter--it was a very thick one and his face lighted up all over +when he saw the writing on the back of it. But when he opened it he +grew so white and looked so pained that I was frightened, and ran to +get him some water to drink. I asked him what was the matter, and he +said his head ached very badly--he has had the headache ever since +he got hurt, and the surgeon said he mustn’t work hard or he would +have trouble. He went into his room after a little while, but I don’t +believe that he slept much, for I heard him ever so many times in the +night, and he has looked pale and sick ever since.” + +For a moment Arley thought she should surely fall to the floor, for all +her strength forsook her. + +Eddied talk about that thick letter, and his uncle’s emotion upon +receiving it, was beginning to open her eyes to the truth. + +“He must have had bad news,” she said, in a low tone, and struggling +for self-command; “but I thought you told me that he had no friends.” + +“He said he had nobody to care for him, and I’m sure I don’t know who +his letter could have been from; I thought the writing was in a lady’s +hand, and I don’t think he read it, for he put it right away in his +desk, and I’m sure I heard him groan as he locked the drawer.” + +Arley made a slight noise, and Eddie looked up at her in a startled way. + +“Are you faint?” he asked, for she was deathly white. + +“No, but I’m not feeling very well; I think I will go home now,” she +replied. “But, Eddie,” she added, hesitatingly, “before I go won’t you +tell me--what your Uncle Philip’s other--name is?” + +“Why, yes, of course I will; he is Philip Paxton, Esq., +attorney-at-law,” the boy said, proudly. + +For an instant every sense seemed to be leaving Arley; her heart +bounded into her throat, and then sank like lead in her bosom; a mist +came before her eyes and a feeling of numbness stole over her. + +Then, calling all her will to her aid, she thanked her unsuspicious +companion, bade him a hasty good-by, and escaped from the place as +quickly as she could. + + * * * * * + +Wednesday morning, long before it was time for fashionable callers to +make their appearance, Miss McAllister’s door-bell rang. There was a +low, sweet-voiced inquiry of the maid who answered it; then the swift +rush of footsteps up the stairs, a rustle of soft garments along the +corridor, and a black-robed figure stopped before the door of Arley’s +boudoir. Then there was a soft tap, and in answer to a low “come in,” +Lady Elaine turned the handle, and, almost before Arley had time to +realize her presence, she had glided to her side, and a pair of arms +encircled her neck, a pair of tremulous, dewy lips met hers, and those +sweet, well-remembered blue eyes were looking an unutterable love into +hers. + +“My darling! oh, my darling! how impatiently I have waited and longed +for this moment!” Lady Elaine said, in a fond, eager tone. “What shall +I say to you? How shall I tell you the blessed news in store for you? I +asked Nannie, at the door, if you were in, and alone. I wanted to come +to you and tell you when no one else was by; and when she told me you +were up here, I came without waiting to be announced--I knew you would +not mind, and I could not wait a moment longer.” + +Arley regarded her friend in surprise while she returned her tender +greeting; she had never seen the fair, calm Lady Elaine so excited and +disconcerted before. + +The arms which encircled her trembled, the lips that kissed her +quivered, and her voice shook with emotion. + +Was it because this meeting brought back sad memories of poor, lost +Wil, and opened her wounds afresh? + +She could not think so, for there seemed to be no sadness or thought of +self in her greeting--only joy, and love, and eagerness. + +A feeling of restful content suddenly settled upon Arley as she nestled +closer into her clinging arms, and clasped her own about Lady Elaine’s +slight waist. + +“I, too, have been very impatient to see you,” she said, “I can never +tell you how I have longed for you during the two years that we have +been separated. I have often thought if I could only have poured my +sorrows and trials into your sympathizing ear, and had you to guide and +counsel me with your calm, wise judgment, I should have suffered much +less; but that was a selfish feeling, wasn’t it, dear? when you have +had your own sorrows, and such heavy ones, too, to bear.” + +“We will not talk of ‘sorrow’ now, Arley,” Lady Elaine replied, but +growing white with sudden pain, “we both have had peculiar trials to +bear, I know, but we have so much to be thankful for that we must put +our grief out of sight--and, perhaps, but for these very sorrows the +present joys would never have been granted to us. Oh! Arley--you know +what I am here for--you know that I have solved all the mystery of your +birth, and the result is wonderful! you could never--never imagine the +truth! and you will be rich, my dear, far richer than you have ever +been before; you have a fortune of nearly five hundred thousand pounds +coming to you.” + +“Elaine! you cannot mean it!” Arley cried, in astonishment, “but,” she +added, flushing, and tears starting to her eyes, “I do not care for +riches if I can only have some one to own and love me.” + +“Ah, my dear--my dear! I have not told you the best of my tidings,” +responded her companion, tremulously, “let me clasp you closely; let me +look full into your dear eyes while I tell it; my own Arley, you must +never call me Lady Elaine again, for you are a ladyship your own sweet +self. My dearest, I will not keep you in suspense a moment longer--you +are Lady Alice, eldest daughter of his grace, the Duke of Mordaunt, +and, therefore, my own--my very own sister!” + + + + +CHAPTER XL. + +ATONEMENT. + + +Arley was literally stricken dumb by this wonderful intelligence. She +could only rest in those clinging arms and stare helplessly up into +Lady Elaine’s face, her own as white as snow; while all her strength +forsook her, leaving her weak and almost fainting. + +From the hour when she had first met the young countess in the home of +their mutual friend, Annie Hamilton, she had experienced an affection, +as deep and strong as it was strange, for her. It had been reciprocated +by Lady Elaine, and both had often wondered why they should feel such +peculiar tenderness for each other. + +Now they understood it; the same blood flowed in their veins; they owed +their being to the same father and mother, and nature and instinct +had both asserted themselves long before it was possible for them to +comprehend the reason for it. + +“It is no wonder that we have loved each other if this is true,” Arley +breathed at last, while she twined her arms more closely about the form +beside her. “My sister! Can it be possible?” + +“Not only possible, but an absolute, indisputable fact,” Lady Elaine +returned, kissing her again and again. + +The tears rained over Arley’s face, and sobs shook her. + +“I have so longed for some one who was my very own to love, and who +would love me. I have been so lonely all my life, yearning for some +congenial companion; and now, just when it has seemed as if life +was wearisome and unsatisfying--hardly worth the living--this great +blessing comes to me. Oh, Elaine, I am greatly comforted; I am very +thankful!” + +“Yes, we have found each other just when we most need each other. Our +Father knows best just when to send His good gifts to His children,” +reverently replied the young countess. “I know all your trouble, dear,” +she went on, tenderly, “or, at least, enough of it to guess at the +rest, and my heart has been very sore on your account; but we will +be all in all to each other now; we will live together, and do good +together, and try to forget our sorrows; or, if we cannot forget them, +we can soften them by our love, and by doing for others.” + +But the words, submissive as they were, seemed to unseal the fountain +of the fair girl’s grief, and the two strangely-united sisters +abandoned themselves for the moment to its sway. + +Arley was the first to recover herself, and, wiping first her own and +then Lady Elaine’s tears, she said: + +“Now, dear, tell me all about this strange discovery. I can scarcely +realize it even yet, though my heart tells me that your words are +truth--that I am of one blood with you.” + +“It is like a romance,” was the reply; “though there has always been +something about you that has moved me strangely--something almost +familiar in your looks and movements, although I never mentioned it to +you.” + +“I presume I should have regarded it merely as a fancy if you had,” +Arley returned. + +“Well, it was not a mere fancy, and now I am going to prove it to you;” +and, as she spoke, Lady Elaine drew from her pocket a small package. + +“Ah, such treasures as I have here!” she continued, smiling; “for +without them it would have been almost impossible to prove your +identity.” + +She removed the papers from it, and revealed a small, black velvet case +in a box. + +Opening the case, she disclosed a picture painted upon porcelain. + +“Look, dear,” she said, putting it into Arley’s hand. “This is a +portrait of our mother, taken just before her marriage. Now tell me if +your face did not remind me of some one I had known?” + +Arley gazed upon it wonderingly. + +There was, indeed, a striking resemblance, though nothing like that of +Ina Wentworth to her mother. + +The shape of the face in the picture was much like Arley’s. The shapely +brows, the curve of the dark, sweeping lashes, the large, liquid, brown +eyes, the piquant mouth and rounded chin were strangely like the happy, +spirited girl whom Lady Elaine had first met and loved at Hazelmere. + +She gazed upon it breathlessly, holding it in her hand with a reverent +clasp, her heart fluttering, like a restless bird, in her bosom. + +“Was this my mother?” she whispered. + +“Yes, our mother, dear; do not leave me out, please, for I am very +jealous of my rights now that I have found my sister,” Lady Elaine +said, dropping her golden head upon Arley’s shoulder. “Is it not +strange that I could never think whom you resembled? Do you not think +that you are very like her?” + +“Yes,” Arley answered, with tremulous lips, “and I am so glad; while +I believed myself to be Arley Wentworth, it was always a great grief +to me that I could trace no resemblance in my features to those of my +supposed father and mother. I remember that you told me when we were +at Hazelmere that your little sister Alice was dark and very like +your mother, while you were a thorough Mordaunt in form and feature. +How happy I am to have this picture! but, oh, if she could have lived +to own me her daughter, and hold me for one moment to her heart! Oh, +Elaine, how I have wanted a mother all my life.” + +“Don’t, dear,” Lady Elaine cried, in a voice of pain, “do not let us +begin to long for the impossible, for if we do our hearts will surely +break,” and Arley knew that she was thinking of Wil as she spoke. + +She touched her lips softly to the white cheeks resting on her +shoulder, and whispered with her eyes still on the beautiful picture: + +“Tell me about her.” + +“There is not much to tell,” Lady Elaine said, “for I was only ten +years old when she died, but I remember her as gentle and sweet, +very affectionate, but with a sadness about her which was extremely +pathetic. This was caused, as I was afterward told, by the loss of my +little sister Alice, while returning from India, where my father had +been obliged to go upon political business soon after his marriage, +and by the subsequent death of my only brother, who was the last of +the Mordaunts. You have heard of that dreadful voyage from India from +Jane Collins, so I will not repeat it; but you were supposed to be +drowned, and were always spoken of as being dead. You are two years +older than I, for I was not born until some time after our mother’s +return to England. She devoted herself to me, but she could not get +over the loss of her first-born, and almost the first thing I remember +was her teaching me to say Alice, and telling me about my little +dark-eyed sister. When I was three years old an heir was born to the +house of Mordaunt, and my father’s heart was filled with joy and pride, +for now he believed that his name and title would be perpetuated. But +Arthur only lived to pass his fifth birthday, and our mother never +recovered from the shock occasioned by his death; she grieved until +she undermined her health and gradually faded out of life. She died, +as I have told you, when I was ten years old, and five years later +my father was taken from me, leaving me to the guardianship of Sir +Anthony Hamilton, only stipulating that I was to remain at the convent +where he had placed me, except during the annual vacation, until my +education was completed. So, you perceive, Arley, that my life has been +as lonely as your own, even more so, indeed, for you had Dr. and Miss +McAllister, who, believing you to be the child of their dear one, loved +you as their own. Oh, if we could only have known years ago that we +belonged to each other, how happy we might have been!” + +Lady Elaine paused to bestow another caress upon the lips so near her +own, and then resumed: + +“Now, I will tell you how I worked out this intricate puzzle. I told +you in my letter how accident brought me into contact with good Jane +Collins, and that I learned from her what transpired in connection +with you at Madrid. She related how she had been startled upon seeing +you, for you resembled so strangely the ‘beautiful lady’ who had +been shipwrecked. I made her go over every item of that story for my +benefit, and, remembering the date of that terrible ordeal through +which my own father and mother had passed, and knowing that you were a +poor little waif cast up by the sea, and your birth still shrouded with +mystery, I became suddenly impressed that you might be the little Alice +for whom our mother grieved as long as she lived. I went immediately +to Miss McAllister and asked her if she had retained any articles of +clothing which you had worn at the time of your return. She had nothing +save a pair of little shoes and stockings, and a tiny ring set with an +emerald. The shoes and socks did not, at first, appear to me to be of +much value, but the moment that my eyes fell upon the ring, my heart +sprang into my throat. + +“Mamma had a very dear friend who married a nobleman and went to live +in France. When she was notified of the birth of little Alice she +immediately sent congratulations, and with them a very plain, but rich +ring set with an emerald. ‘If it had only been a son,’ she wrote, ‘the +stone should have been a diamond, and remember, whenever the heir does +make his appearance, he is to have it.’ When the news of my birth +reached her, she sent another ring, the exact counterpart of the first, +saying that she should serve the daughters of the house of Mordaunt all +alike, and again spoke of a diamond being reserved for the heir; and +lo! when Arthur came, true to her promise, there came still another +circlet, exactly like the others, only set with a pure, beautiful white +stone. + +“The moment that Miss McAllister gave me the ring that had been taken +from your finger I recognized it, and in my heart I knew well enough +that you were my sister; but I knew that you and others would not, like +me, feel satisfied without further proof, so I resolved to say nothing +about my suspicions until I could establish the fact beyond a doubt. I +have the three rings which mamma’s friend sent her; I brought them to +show to you--they are the first link in my chain of evidence.” + +Lady Elaine opened the box upon her lap, and, taking from it another +smaller one, lifted the lid and revealed the three rings lying within +upon a bed of snow-white cotton--tiny little things, fit only for baby +fingers, but fraught with an interest and sacredness which would render +them priceless to those two lovely women so long as they should live. + +“See, my darling,” she said, putting the box into Arley’s hand, “if you +can pick out your own.” + +Arley bent over them with quivering lips and tear-laden eyes, wondering +how it was possible that so much vital importance could be connected +with such tiny trifles. + +“They are exactly alike,” she said, at length. “I can see no difference +in them, excepting, perhaps, that the stone in this one is a trifle +larger than in the other; but whether it belongs to you or me I cannot +tell.” + +“We will assume that it is yours, since you are the eldest daughter +of the house of Mordaunt,” Lady Elaine answered, smiling, “and,” she +added, taking it from her, “we will make a charm of each, and always +wear them as the precious mementoes of our restoration to each other.” + +She fastened it, as she ceased speaking, upon Arley’s watch chain, and +then attached the other to her own. + +“The diamond,” she continued, tenderly, “we will lay away among our +treasures as a sacred keepsake, to remind us of our only brother.” + +She then took from the box upon her lap the little socks which Miss +McAllister had given her, and also the pair which she had received from +Captain Bancroft’s widow, and told Arley of her visit to the old lady, +and of the long and conclusive story which she had related to her. + +“I knew,” she said, “before she had half finished, that all mystery +and doubt were solved, but when she brought me the passenger list, +and I read there the names of our own father and mother--‘Lord Arthur +Warburton, Duke of Mordaunt, Lady Warburton, Miss Alice Warburton and +nurse’--the fact was established, and I knew that the girl whom I had +learned to love so dearly at Hazelmere was my own sister.” + +“It is wonderful! I do not know how to comprehend it,” Arley murmured, +when Lady Elaine concluded. + +“It is wonderful,” she assented, “and I am so thankful, so content, +so blest in the knowledge--just think! you are no longer ‘Arley the +nameless,’ as you have so often and bitterly styled yourself, but Lady +Alice Warburton, eldest daughter of the Duke of Mordaunt, and heiress +to half of his immense property.” + +Arley flushed a sudden crimson. + +“The property--that has always been yours--I cannot take it,” she said, +quickly. + +Lady Elaine laughed such a low, sweet laugh at this. + +“Have you forgotten,” she asked, “how two years ago, when poor Ina +Wentworth tremblingly made her appearance, claiming naught but a name +and kindred, the ‘usurper,’ Arley, not only relinquished her name, but +all right and title to fortune, home and everything?” + +“I know,” Arley returned, with a flush still on her cheek, “but I had +been using the poor girl’s fortune as freely as if it had been water, +while she had barely existed, with no home, no love, or anything else +to make life endurable.” + +“Out of your own mouth will I condemn you,” Lady Elaine retorted, +smiling. “All these long years I have been spending your fortune +as freely as if it was water, while during the last two you have +lived--how have you lived, Arley? + +“You shall tell me about it by and by,” she resumed, hastily, seeing +how flushed and pained Arley’s face had grown at the question; “but +you must not allow any false scruples to trouble you; remember that +you are the eldest daughter of the Duke of Mordaunt, and your rights +are paramount to mine--you are to share equally with me from this time +forth--that I am resolved upon, and from this day you are to consider +that you have ten thousand pounds annually at your disposal.” + +Arley knew from her manner that it would be useless to argue the matter +further, and so she did not refer to it again. + +“It all seems like a dream,” she said, musingly. + +“But it is not a dream--it is a blessed, glorious reality; and how much +we may both yet enjoy in spite of the sad past,” her sister returned. +“Our father’s house here in the city stands closed and gloomy; we will +go back to it--it shall be our home, if you consent--I could not live +in it alone, but with you to help me enjoy it, it would be a pleasure +to go back into its familiar halls and rooms. Then Mordaunt Hall, at +Eversham, shall be opened once more in summer time, and we will do what +we can for the glory of the old house, and we will be happy in each +other, and in doing all the good we can.” + +In spite of her hopeful words and her attempt at cheerfulness, Lady +Elaine broke down here and threw herself sobbing into Arley’s arms. + +All the tender memories of those happy months at Hazelmere came rushing +over her with all that she had lost and suffered since, and, in spite +of the happiness which she experienced in her new relations with Arley, +a feeling of desolateness and misery completely unnerved her for the +moment. + +Arley soothed her with exceeding tenderness, and when, after a time, +she grew more calm, they began to talk over the past more minutely, and +to lay plans for the future. + +Arley questioned Lady Elaine very closely regarding what she knew of +Philip since his return from Spain, and was at length convinced that he +had told her all the truth--that he had indeed not “spared himself.” + +Then she showed her the letter which he had written to her, and related +all that she had learned from Eddie Winthrope regarding his more recent +doings. + +Lady Elaine was greatly astonished. + +“There is good in him, after all,” she said. “He is atoning most nobly.” + +“Do you believe that any one can redeem the past?” Arley asked, wearily. + +“Perhaps not in one sense, and yet I know that there are many men who +have lived the latter years of their lives so nobly that they have +blotted out, at least from the minds of others, all remembrance of the +sins of their youth, and, in fact, atoned for much of the evil which +they have previously done. I must say,” the lovely girl continued, +gently, “that my heart yearns a little after that recreant husband of +yours, Arley; do you suppose that he could ever atone to you?” + +Arley gave her a startled glance, and grew deathly pale at the question. + +She did not answer for some time; then, looking up with a sort of +hopeless misery in her eyes, she said, in a hollow tone: + +“I have said that I can never forgive him, and I do not believe that I +ever can; I am afraid I do not even want to.” + + + + +CHAPTER XLI. + +I AM HIS WIFE. + + +After consulting a while longer the two sisters went down to tell their +glad news to Miss McAllister and Ina. + +To say that they were surprised would be but a tame statement of the +fact. + +They had imagined every possible solution to the mystery as they +now thought, but all fell far short of the right one; and now Miss +McAllister seemed almost to feel as if Arley had been raised almost +entirely out of her atmosphere. + +“To think of your being a countess in your own right!” she said, +wonderingly, and gazing at her as if to see if the title of “Lady” had +not caused a change in her appearance. + +“Well, auntie, I feel a very humble personage in spite of it all,” was +the rather sad reply, “and, though I am unspeakably thankful to know +just where and to whom I belong in the world, yet the knowledge can +never change the love I bear to those who have been my kindest and best +friends.” + +She bent and kissed the old lady on the forehead most tenderly as she +ceased speaking. + +“I suppose you will want to take her away from me now,” Miss McAllister +said, with wistful sadness, to Lady Elaine. + +“Yes, auntie,” Arley hastened to say, “we two sisters, the last of our +race, cannot be separated, but we shall be so near you, for we are +going to live at Mordaunt House, that we can come to see you every day.” + +“Well, I suppose it is right and best so; but you have belonged to me +for so long that it is rather hard to relinquish my claim,” the old +lady answered, with a sigh. + +Sweet Ina Wentworth heard the announcement with tears in her lovely +eyes. + +“I had hoped that Arley was henceforth to be my sister,” she said to +Lady Elaine, “but, of course, the ties of blood are strongest, and +perhaps my loss in this way may prove my gain in another--in securing +your friendship thereby.” + +“Indeed, I shall be very proud to be considered your friend,” Lady +Elaine answered, heartily. + +And thus it was settled that Mordaunt House should be reopened and +occupied once more. + +Lady Elaine persuaded Arley to drive back to the Langham with her and +be presented in her new character to the friends waiting so impatiently +there to learn the secret of her birth; and there during a tempting +dinner served in their own apartments they talked over their plans with +Sir Anthony and Lady Hamilton, who sympathized most heartily with them +in their new happiness. + +“Assist you in reopening Mordaunt House? Of course I will, with the +greatest of pleasure,” Lady Hamilton said, in reply to Lady Elaine’s +request to do so, “and thank you most cordially for the invitation. +You know, dear, you are just the same to me as an own daughter, and +if Wil had lived you would probably have made this old home your town +residence, and, of course, in that case I should have spent my time +there when we came up to London, and why not now, if you both desire +it? It will be much pleasanter than the bustle and confusion of a grand +hotel like this. Then when you want a change you can come to us at +Hazelmere; I think you have arranged it very nicely for us all.” + +Lady Hamilton was evidently much pleased at being so confidentially +consulted. + +But when told that Arley wished to keep her identity a secret she +demurred. + +“She ought to assume her title, and take her proper position in +society,” she said, gravely. + +“But, dear Lady Hamilton, it would not matter for a while, would it? +The future will shape itself after we are settled, and you must know +that neither of us have much heart for society at present,” Lady Elaine +returned, sadly, and her friend did not press the matter any further. + +So Mordaunt House was opened, and the two sisters seemed suddenly to +have acquired a new interest in life, in refurnishing and making a +pleasant, habitable house of it. + +There was plenty to be done, for, having been shut up for so many +years, everything had become defaced, moth-eaten, and dilapidated, and +it took fully two months to put it in order. + +Meantime Arley kept herself very close; she saw no one, went out very +little, and hardly any one outside of her immediate circle of friends +knew of her return. She left all shopping and ordering to Lady Elaine +and Lady Hamilton to do, but devoted all her energies to the disposing +and arranging of their purchases when they arrived at their house. + +She had heard nothing, seen nothing, of Philip; he might have been dead +and forgotten by everybody for all the knowledge she had of him; but, +strange to say, he was in her thoughts almost constantly, and she often +found herself wondering if he was still plodding along at his business +during the day. + +She had not gone again to the Art Exhibition. She dare not trust +herself with the boy again lest she betray herself, and, besides, +she was fearful of meeting people whom she knew, and thus subjecting +herself to painful inquiries. + +Sir Charles Herbert and his mother had been informed of the happy +change in her circumstances, and were greatly pleased, while +they willingly consented to regard the communication as strictly +confidential. + +The day arrived when everything was completed, and Mordaunt House was +formally taken possession of, and Arley--she still insisted upon being +called by her old name, and saying that she should never recognize +herself if addressed as Lady Alice--and Lady Elaine gave a dinner in +honor of the occasion to their intimate friends--Sir Anthony and Lady +Hamilton, Sir Charles Herbert and his mother, Miss McAllister and Ina, +and Fred Vane and his wife. + +There were only ten in all, but they were all dear friends, and every +one was deeply interested in the re-establishment of this beautiful +home, and the lovely girls who were to occupy it. + +Sir Charles Herbert had availed himself several times of the permission +which he had obtained at the first visit which he had made at Miss +McAllister’s, to call as often as he liked, and each call had served to +impress the charms of fair Ina Wentworth more deeply upon his heart, +and to-day, while at Mordaunt House, there was that in his manner and +bearing toward her which told more than one observant eye that Miss +McAllister would not be able to keep the gentle girl all to herself +much longer. + +The dinner passed off very pleasantly and socially, notwithstanding +that the thoughts of most of the company would revert from time to time +to one whom they had so dearly loved and now missed so sadly. + +Sir Charles and his mother both exerted themselves to make the evening +agreeable, by relating many charming and amusing incidents connected +with their recent travels. + +Lady Elaine bravely tried to conceal the grief which this reunion could +not fail to excite, and her consciousness of that one vacant chair, and +was really very cheerful and entertaining, while Arley, too, strove to +perform the part of a hospitable hostess, though her heart was very +sore. + +Sir Charles contrived to secure a few moments alone with Ina before the +company separated, and something in his look and in the tone in which +he addressed her made the tell-tale blushes leap into her cheeks, and +her lovely blue-gray eyes droop shyly before his. + +“Will you ride with me in Rotten Row to-morrow, Miss Ina?” he asked, in +a low voice. “I have recently purchased a fine horse, which, I think, +is superior under the saddle, and I would like to ask you to do me the +favor to try her.” + +There is an object beneath the request, Ina feels--an object which +thrills her heart with a deep joy and makes her pulse leap with a +strange excitement. + +But she assents with a shy, tremulous smile, and Sir Charles takes his +leave, feeling much elated and quite sure that the question which he +intends to ask on the morrow will receive a favorable reply. + +When their guests were all gone, Arley somehow felt strangely depressed. + +It was very late, but she did not feel at all like sleeping, and, +taking the evening paper, she retired to her own room to read until +she could coax the “drowsy god” to bring her repose. + +Suddenly her eyes lighted in a startled way upon this item: + + Sad and Probably Fatal Accident.--As Philip Paxton, Esq., a promising + barrister of this city, was driving this afternoon, in company with + a young lad whom he has recently adopted, his horse suddenly took + fright at some object in the street, became unmanageable, and both + occupants of the carriage were thrown, the boy escaping unhurt, while + Mr. Paxton, being hurled violently against the curbing, was taken up + senseless. As the affair occurred near Hyde Park Corner, the injured + man was taken to St. George’s Hospital, where an examination showed + him to have been very seriously hurt, and this casualty, combined + with a former injury received in a railway accident, renders Mr. + Paxton’s condition an extremely critical one. + +Every particle of color receded from Arley’s face as she read the +above; her eyes grew almost wild with terror, her breath seemed to +stop, and she felt as if she were suffocating. + +“Oh, Arley, Arley!” She seemed almost to hear him calling out those +words, which only a short time before he had so impulsively written and +then crossed out, “let a little of divine compassion into your heart +and offer one single prayer--I should feel its influence though the +world divided us.” + +How those words had burned themselves into her brain! + +She had never realized until this moment how fearfully she had been +impressed by them, and yet she had never offered that one prayer for +him--she had hardened her heart against him, and now it might be too +late. + +She had told herself that she could not ask God to pardon him, when she +could not forgive him herself, when she even had no wish to forgive +him; but now a sudden revulsion of feeling overpowered her--she threw +herself upon her knees, clutching the paper convulsively in her hands, +trembling in every limb, and cried out, wildly: + +“Save him--oh, save him, and I will forgive! I do not wish him to die, +and now I know that in spite of everything I have never ceased to love +him, and--I love him still.” + +With this full and free confession every barrier seemed swept away; she +wept a perfect rain of tears--tears that softened her proud heart, and +washed away every trace of anger and bitterness. + +Half an hour later she stole to Lady Elaine’s door and tapped softly +for permission to enter. + +“Come in, Arley dear,” the sweet voice from within answered, and she +entered, the evening paper still in her hand. + +“Darling, what is it?” her sister cried, in a startled tone, as soon as +she caught sight of Arley’s colorless face and wild eyes. + +She spread the paper before her, pointing to the paragraph which had so +unnerved her, then dropping upon her knees by her side she buried her +face in her lap with a gesture of despair. + +Lady Elaine read the account of the accident, and a look of deep pity +swept over her lovely face. + +“Poor Philip!” she murmured, in a low tone. + +Arley moaned, and Lady Elaine, laying her hand softly upon the dark +head in her lap, added, tenderly: + +“Poor Arley, too; can she forgive him now?” + +“I have forgiven him; but, oh! I am afraid that it is too late for him +ever to know it!” she cried, with another paroxysm of grief. + +Lady Elaine bent forward and kissed her with great tenderness. + +“I knew that it would eventually come to this,” she said; “when I +learned how nobly he was striving to atone for the past, I knew that +the old love was not quite dead, Arley, dear, and I am glad that you +have found it out, even at this late hour, for you will be far happier +in the future to have all bitterness eradicated from your heart.” + +“I have been very hard and relentless,” wailed poor Arley. “I had +no right to cherish such a cruel disposition, and in my heart I did +long to send him some comforting word when little Eddie Winthrope was +telling how good and kind he had been to him, only my pride would not +let me yield enough to do so; but I must go,” she concluded, starting +up from her kneeling posture. + +“Go! Go where?” cried Lady Elaine, in surprise. + +“To St. George’s Hospital--to him.” + +“But they will not allow you there, and you could do him no good.” + +“They must let me in,” Arley cried, excitedly. “I am his wife. I have +a right to be with him. I must--I will go, and if he should come to +himself, if only for a moment, I could tell him that I forgive him, and +he would be comforted; oh, I did not want him to die like this!” + +Lady Elaine drew her close into her arms and tried to soothe her, for +she was greatly excited. + +“Dear Arley,” she said, “you cannot go to-night--no one would be +admitted at such an hour; go to rest--gather all the strength that you +can before morning, then we will both go to St. George’s Hospital, and +if anything can avail to give you access to Philip you shall have it.” + +Arley saw the wisdom of this advice and allowed herself to be persuaded +to retire, provided that she might remain with her sister, and so +locked in each other’s arms the remainder of the night was passed and +another day dawned. + + + + +CHAPTER XLII. + +WHERE AM I? + + +At an early hour the next morning two sad-faced, anxious women +presented themselves at St. George’s Hospital, and, with quaking +hearts, inquired regarding the condition of Philip Paxton. + +After some delay Arley was admitted to the room where Philip now lay +prostrate and helpless, perhaps dying. + +She went close up to him and bent down to study his face. His features +were very peaceful in their unconscious repose, and those evil lines +which she remembered so well had all seemed to have faded out from it, +leaving him, save for his exceeding pallor, more like her handsome, +attractive Philip whom she had learned to love so well at Hazelmere. + +The tears rained over her cheeks as she gazed at him, but she made no +sound, only silently wiping them away as they fell, while the surgeon, +watching her, felt a tender pity and sympathy for the sad-hearted young +wife. + +Presently she stayed her weeping, and, moving up to him, signified by a +gesture that she wished to confer with him, and, opening the door for +her, they both passed noiselessly out of the room. + +“You will let me stay with him?” she said, appealingly, the moment the +door was shut again. + +He hesitated, scanning her face closely for a moment. + +“I know what you are thinking,” she continued, as she noticed his look, +while a quick sob escaped her. “You are wondering if I am strong enough +to stay here and see him die. But whether he lives or dies, I must +stay,” she added, resolutely. “I am his wife, and my place is at his +bedside. I do not know,” she went on, hurriedly, “whether I could be of +any use or not, but, at least, I will not make any disturbance; I will +be perfectly quiet and calm; but, you know, if he should have one lucid +moment, it will belong to me. Say that you will let me stay, doctor,” +and involuntarily she clasped her hands in a way he could not resist, +as she made this last appeal. + +“Yes, you shall remain,” he replied, in an unsteady voice. + +He did not really believe that the man would ever come out of the +stupor in which he was lying, but if he did, and should have a lucid +moment, he felt that it ought, as she had said, to belong to her--his +wife. + +Of course, he could not have any idea with what agony Arley was longing +for consciousness to be restored to him, even momentarily, that she +might breathe into his ear the forgiveness which she knew he craved. He +did not dream that there had ever been a shadow between them--he simply +regarded her as a fond and faithful wife, who could not endure the +thought of being separated from her husband while there should be any +sign of life in him, and so he had given the desired permission. + +Arley went back to Lady Elaine and told her her decision. + +“I do not think he will live,” she said, with a quiver of pain in her +voice, while she twined her arms about her sister’s waist and dropped +her head for a moment on her shoulder; “but the surgeon says I may +stay, and, oh! darling, pray that he may have but one single moment of +consciousness in which to know me and to let me make my peace with him. +He looks noble and good now--like the man I believed him to be when we +first met at Hazelmere--as he lays there so still and pale, and those +cruel, evil lines which came into his face after we were married are +all gone.” + +“I am glad that you are going to stay, Arley, dear,” Lady Elaine said; +“I think it is right you should; the conviction has been growing upon +me of late that Philip was really changed. I believe he has sincerely +repented of his wrong-doing, and if he should come to himself and +find you beside him, and ready to forgive him, it would be of the +greatest comfort to him. But do not overtax yourself, dear,” she added, +tenderly; “remember that I have only just found my sister, and I could +not bear that ill should befall her. I shall be very lonely without +you, but I know it is right for you to be here, and I shall come every +day, as long as you stay, to see you and to inquire for Philip.” + +She kissed her fondly, and then went away, and Arley, removing her hat +and wraps, went back to that silent sickroom to watch and--wait. + +Day after day she remained at her post, and there was no change. + +No change, apparently, in Philip, but in the heart of the young wife a +very radical one. In place of the hard and unforgiving feelings which +for so long she had been cherishing against him, a tender yearning, +a deep and absorbing love--akin to that of maidenhood--was taking +possession of her, while every hour that first agonized prayer--save +him, oh, save him! was whispered by her pale lips. + +For a week Philip Paxton lay there but a mere breathing form, and +though the surgeon considered it impossible for him to recover, each +succeeding day seemed to find him the same--no better, no worse. + +At last, on the eighth day, there was a copious discharge from his head +through one of his ears, and then the patient appeared as if about to +awake to life once more. + +“There had been a fearful abscess in his head,” the surgeon said, with +a puzzled look, “but it is impossible that such a gathering could have +been the result of this recent injury--it may have aggravated it, but +it never could have caused it in so short a time.” + +Arley started, and then, remembering what Eddie Winthrope had told her, +she said: + +“He was severely injured about the head several months ago in a railway +accident.” + +“Aha!” ejaculated the surgeon, looking enlightened. “Has he complained +since of any trouble there?” he asked. + +Arley colored a vivid red. + +Very little, indeed, did she know regarding Philip’s complaints during +the last year, but, of course, she was not going to confess this to the +doctor, so, quoting again from Eddie Winthrope, she said: + +“Yes, he has complained of headache a good deal.” + +The surgeon nodded many times, as if answering to himself what had all +along been perplexing queries in his mind. + +“I see--I see,” he said at length to her. “This abscess has been a +great while forming, and it would have taken a good while longer for it +to have reached a crisis had it not been for this recent injury, that +has aggravated and hastened it to a termination. If”--and here he bent +a penetrating look upon Arley--“if it does not gather again, I think +there is hope that your husband may recover, madam.” + +Arley started and looked at him with a frightened glance as he made +this announcement. + +She had never for a moment believed that Philip would get well. She had +looked for his death daily, almost hourly, ever since she had entered +the hospital. + +Her first impulse was to fly back to Mordaunt House and hide herself +again within its friendly walls; but she had presented herself at St. +George’s Hospital and demanded admittance as Philip Paxton’s wife, +and now she could not go away, she could not desert the post she had +assumed, without exciting remark and scandal. + +When Lady Elaine came she went down and told her. + +“What shall I do?” she asked, helplessly. “How shall I meet this +unexpected turn of affairs?” + +“Question your own heart, Arley,” her sister answered, gravely. “You +were ready to forgive him when you thought him about to die--will he be +any less worthy if he lives? You have borne much, I know--you have a +great deal to forgive; but----” + +“Well?” questioned Arley, quickly. + +“But if there is no love--no real love in your heart for him, it will +be better for you to come away with me at once, before he realizes that +you have been here.” + +Arley burst into a torrent of tears at this. + +“I do love him, Elaine; it has all come back to me while I have been +watching and tending him here; and if--oh, if I only knew that he would +prove to be the noble man that we have hoped he was striving to be of +late, I could forget all the dreadful past.” + +Lady Elaine kissed her with trembling lips. + +“Try him, dear. He does not know anything about our recent discoveries; +he has not a suspicion that you are a Mordaunt--no one knows it save +the few who love you, and will keep the secret as long as you wish. +Give Philip a trial. If he is really honest, and is earnest, if he +truly loves you, he will only be too eager to win you back to him as +the poor Arley he affected to despise. That will be a test of his +sincerity which I think even you cannot doubt.” + +The next day, as Arley was sitting beside Philip, calm and tranquil, +now that she had decided upon the course that she was to pursue, he +moved, and spoke for the first time in ten days. + +“Where am I?” he asked. + +He had been sleeping for several hours, a natural, healthful sleep, and +his general appearance had indicated a marked improvement. + +Arley was alone with him, the nurse having gone for a rest, and her +heart flew into her throat as she heard his words, and knew that he was +awake, and in another moment would doubtless recognize her. + +She saw that his eyes were open and wandering with a bewildered look +about the room. + +Presently they rested upon her; but the light was dim, and at first he +did not seem to know her. Then all at once a look of wonder shot into +his eyes, which finally grew into a frightened stare. + +His lips moved, forming her name, but no sound came from them; then a +violent trembling seized him, and he cried out: + +“Arley! Heavens! Where am I?” + +“You are sick, Philip, and I am taking care of you,” she answered, in +an even, gentle tone, as if it were a matter of course. + +The sound of her voice seemed to strike him dumb again, and he lay +regarding her with a vacant expression. + +“You!” at length he whispered, and his lips seemed to grow stiff over +the word. + +Arley reached out for a bowl which stood near her, and put a spoonful +of its contents to his mouth. + +“You must drink this,” she said, with quiet authority, “and you must +not talk any more now.” + +He obeyed her, because he had not strength to do otherwise, but as he +hungrily sipped the liquid with which she fed him his eyes never left +her face, and the wondering, eager, questioning look in them she never +forgot as long as she lived. + +He lay very quiet after he had taken all that she thought best to give +him, and soon the surgeon came in to see him. + +“Aha!” he said, after one comprehensive glance at his patient, and +in a tone of intense satisfaction; “I thought so! Well, sir!”--to +Philip--“how do you find yourself to-day?” + +“I am not sure that I have found myself at all,” Philip replied, +weakly, and casting perplexed glances from him to Arley. + +“Well, never mind; you’ll pick yourself up by degrees, I imagine,” was +the smiling reply. “I am satisfied to find you as you are, for you’ve +had quite a serious time of it, my friend.” + +“I begin to remember something--I was thrown from my carriage--and +Eddie--where is Eddie?” Philip questioned, consciousness beginning to +assert itself. + +The doctor now turned a puzzled look upon Arley, for this was the first +he had heard about Eddie. + +“Eddie is well; he escaped unhurt, and has been well cared for ever +since the accident.” + +It should have been mentioned before that Lady Elaine, at Arley’s +request, had gone to Philip’s chambers to make inquiries regarding the +lad, and had found him well, but greatly distressed upon his uncle’s +account. + +“Oh, I cannot have him die, too!” he cried, when he had told her all +about the unmanageable horse and their great danger, and how people +told him they feared Mr. Paxton could not live. + +“We will pray that he may not,” she had answered, soothingly, and then +she told him that she was the sister of the lady whom he had met in +the art gallery and who had sent her to take him home to stay with her +until his Uncle Philip should be better. + +She did not tell him anything about Arley’s relations to Philip, +thinking it best to wait for further developments; but she took him +every day with her when she went to inquire about the sick man, though +he sat in the carriage while she went into the hospital, and tried to +be patient and content with the limited intelligence which she brought +him. But he was very anxious, and his anxiety wore upon him sadly. + +And this was how Arley could speak so confidently of the boy’s welfare +when Philip asked for him. + +Then, turning to the surgeon, she exclaimed: + +“Eddie is a little boy whom Mr. Paxton has befriended, and who was +riding with him at the time of his accident.” + +The surgeon nodded, and then asked: + +“Has he been talking much?” + +“No, sir; I thought it best for him not to talk much at present,” she +returned, a slight flush rising to her cheeks. + +He smiled. + +“A little moderate conversation will do him no harm,” he said, “and +doubtless there are some things that he would like some help about +recalling. It will take him some little time to recover his strength, +but I think he is going to do very well.” + +He made some little change in Philip’s medicines, and then went about +other duties, leaving this strangely-reunited husband and wife once +more alone. + + + + +CHAPTER XLIII. + +A NOBLE MANHOOD RESTORED. + + +A long silence ensued in that sickroom after the departure of the +surgeon, a silence of painful heart-throbs on Arley’s part, of grave +wondering on Philip’s. + +His mind was beginning to recover its wonted balance and activity, and +he was striving to recall the past. + +He remembered events up to the time of his fall, but since then +everything was, of course, an utter blank to him. + +“Where am I? You have not told me yet,” he said at length, in a low, +constrained tone, and without looking at Arley. + +“In St. George’s Hospital--you were brought here directly after your +accident.” + +“How long have I been here?” + +“Ten days.” + +“How long have you been here?” and now he turned an anxious look of +inquiry upon her. + +“I came the next morning after you were injured.” + +“Why did you come, Arley?” + +She flushed; it was a hard question to answer. + +“Because--the paper stated that your injuries were probably fatal, +and----” + +“And?” he repeated, in a breathless whisper. + +“And I could not bear that you should die, and I not see you once +more,” she returned, with drooping eyes, in which there were tears. + +“Have you been here ever since?” + +“Yes.” + +There was an oppressive silence for a few moments, then: + +“Arley, I have not deserved this from you,” Philip said, in a tremulous +tone, “it would have been but just if you had left me to die without a +thought.” + +“No, I could not do that,” she replied, in an earnest tone, and +bending a little nearer to him. “I thought that--if you must go into +eternity--and it were possible--I wanted to be at peace with you.” + +“You wanted to be at peace with me?” he repeated, with an astonished +look. “I do not see how that could be possible, after----” + +“Never mind how,” she said, gently, “the fact remains the same--I do +wish it.” + +“But--I am going to get well now,” Philip said, after another short +silence, and lifting a sorrowful yet half-appealing look to her. + +“Yes.” + +“Would you have come to me all the same, if you had known it?” + +“I--I prayed that you might be allowed to live,” she murmured. She +could not tell him that she would have come, for she did not know her +own heart well enough to tell whether she would or not. + +A flush mounted to his brow, and his eye kindled for a moment; then he +continued in a hopeless tone, and with a weary sigh: + +“Yes, I might have known you would never wish ill to any one--you were +always kind and noble, Arley, but no one could have blamed you if you +had been relieved at the prospect of being permanently released from +all ties that bound you to me, who has treated you as I have done.” + +Arley flushed now. His words jarred upon her. It was very evident +that he did not expect that her desire to be at peace with him would +continue to be extended to him now that he had a new lease of life. + +“It was very good of you,” he went on, in the same tone, after a moment +of evidently painful thought, “to remain here and care for me. Maybe +you felt it a sort of duty, since you bear my name, but, no matter what +the motive was, it was very kind, and I shall always remember it with +gratitude; it will be very pleasant to think of in the future, that +you were by my side to do for me even though I was unconscious of the +fact and could not appreciate it. I suppose I shall not need so much +attention now that I am getting better, and a nurse can relieve you +from this confinement; but while we are talking of this, I do want to +tell you, face to face, that I can never forgive myself for the wrong +that I have done you, and it will never cease to haunt me while I live. +But nothing that I can say of myself--nothing that any one could say +of me would be too severe. I feel that no sentence, however austere, +would be unjust, and I would most gladly perform the harshest penance +if I could but wipe out the remembrance of the past two years from your +heart and my own. If I could put you back, Arley, where you were when I +first met you at Hazelmere, I would gladly forfeit every future earthly +prospect, were it required of me to do so. Words are weak to make you +understand what I feel, but if you could look into my heart you would +see that I am sincere. I cannot ask you to forgive me, for I know +that I do not deserve it; but--I wish you would allow me to work for +you, Arley--pray do not refuse me this boon, and you shall henceforth +know no earthly care; I will devote all my energies to making your +path through life as smooth as it may be after the ruin which I have +wrought; and, if I am spared, all my future shall prove how I repent of +the unhappiness which I have caused you.” + +He glanced up at her with an appealing look, but she sat like a statue, +only her cheeks were a burning crimson, and her eyes were cast down so +that he could not see their expression. + +“Why,” he asked, hesitatingly, “would you not use the income which I +authorized Mr. Holley to pay you?” + +“Did you expect that I would use it?” Arley asked, a touch of her old +spirit in her tone. + +“I hoped that you would, for, of course, I knew your circumstances, and +how hard it would be for you to take care of yourself; still I knew, +too, that you were very proud, and I had a fear that you might reject +it--but it would have comforted me greatly to feel that I could do ever +so little toward atonement for the past.” + +“I could not understand how you were able to settle such a sum upon +me,” Arley replied, lifting her eyes and looking at him searchingly. + +“Ah!” he cried, in a startled tone, and instantly comprehending her +thought, “did you think that I had come by it dishonestly? that I had +gambled for it? I see,” he continued, with a sigh, “you have no reason +to think anything good of me, and if you thought that, it is no wonder +that you would not use the money; but such an idea never occurred to me +before, and I tell you the truth, Arley, all the gambling I ever did +in my life was done in Madrid, and I look back upon the frenzy of that +time with deepest shame.” + +“But you could never have earned twenty thousand pounds since your +return,” Arley returned, wondering more and more where the money had +come from. + +“No,” he said, flushing violently; “I have made a great mistake--I +should have explained to you how I came by it--though after your +refusal to appropriate it, I should hesitate to do so, except to clear +myself from your suspicion that I had gambled for it. It was a legacy, +Arley, left me recently by an aunt.” + +“And you settled it all upon me,” she cried, astonished at this +evidence of the radical change in him. + +Only two years previous he had forfeited his honor and truth, and had +sacrificed her upon the altar of his ambition for the sake of winning +her twenty thousand pounds; money had been his whole aim and object, +and now he had deprived himself of a recent legacy, to place her in a +position of independence and comfort; besides this, he had burdened +himself with the care and support of Eddie Winthrope, the maimed and +friendless orphan. + +A feeling of respect, almost of reverence, was beginning to take +possession of her heart, for there were surely noble deeds and evidence +of a goodness which she had believed was wholly foreign to him. + +Tears sprang into her eyes, and a song of thanksgiving arose within her +for a noble manhood restored. + +“I was very glad to settle it upon you,” he answered, evasively; he +wondered what she would say if she knew that it was but a very small +portion of his legacy. “But,” he continued, humbly, “now that you know +I came by it honestly, if you would accept it, it would take such a +load from my mind--it has driven me nearly mad, since I came to my +senses, to think of you, who, until that fatal day two years ago, never +knew a care, toiling for your own living. I know I have no right to +sue to you for favors, but there are two that I beg you in mercy to +grant me, if I must indeed take up the burden of life again; one is to +keep this money--let me have the comfort of knowing that I have thrown +that much of care and protection about you; the other--oh! Arley, be +pitiful--enough of forgiveness to cause you to regard me with something +of compassion instead of hatred.” + +His voice broke in the appeal. It was like the cry of a drowning +man--agonizing, beseeching, yet almost hopeless. + +Arley’s heart melted within her. She could never doubt his sincerity +after that. + +She got up from her chair, and, going to the door, locked it. She +wished no intruders to encroach upon that interview. Then she went back +and sat down beside him again. + +“Philip,” she began in a trembling voice, as she bent toward him--and, +with a great heart-throb he saw that the tears were rolling swiftly +over her cheeks--“when I read in the paper that you were injured and +would probably die, the fountains of my heart seemed to be instantly +unsealed, and my first act was to cry to Heaven to save you, and--I +would forgive all. Philip, I--I have forgiven. + +“Don’t do that, please,” she continued, as a great sob burst from him +at those blessed words. “I cannot bear to see you weep; and I must +tell you that I returned to England with very hard and bitter feelings +against you. I said that I would never forgive you--that I would never +even look upon your face again if I could help it. But, at the very +first, your letter staggered me. I felt, even though I did not like to +acknowledge it, that the ring of true repentance was in it, even though +it revealed depths of evil and wrong of which I had never dreamed. +Then I was even more amazed at receiving the quarterly allowance from +Mr. Holley, and to learn that you had settled a fortune upon me. But +this hardened me somewhat again, for I believed, as you surmise, that +you had not come by it honestly. I felt sure that you could not have +earned it, with business ever so flourishing, and I reasoned that only +a successful handling of cards or dice could have put you in possession +of it, and a freak of some kind had prompted you to settle it upon me. +But, one day, I met Eddie Winthrope in the art gallery. He was looking +at my pictures----” + +Philip uttered a low exclamation of surprise at this. + +“Were you that lady? He came home full of enthusiasm over a lady whom +he had met--an _artiste_, he said she was--and who had told him so much +about painting, and was very kind to him.” + +“Yes, it was I,” Arley returned; “and from him I learned of all that +you had done and were still doing for him--how sad you were, how hard +you were working, and how ill you seemed to be. From that hour my +feelings toward you began to change, though I fought against it. I had +been unhappy enough before--I was doubly wretched then; for I knew +that if you were aiming at a better life--if you were truly repentant +and striving to become again the noble man I once believed you to be, +I was wrong to cherish such a bitter and unforgiving spirit toward +you. I tried, at all events, to think so; for, in my pride and anger, I +said that no woman could love a man who had used her so--no one could +overlook and forgive what I had suffered. But when I read that item in +the paper, there came a sudden revulsion--hush! you must not do so,” +she interposed, for the strong man had broken down utterly, and was +sobbing like a child, while the tears rained over his cheeks. + +It was no shame for him to weep thus--it was an honor, rather, to his +manhood; and very tenderly Arley wiped those tears away, feeling that +every one was a precious pledge of future happiness, and of the love, +and care, and tenderness with which he would surround her henceforth. + +“Oh, say it again--that you have forgiven?” he pleaded, when he could +command himself sufficiently to speak. + +“Yes, all--everything; and”--she bent closer over him, her cheeks a +rich crimson, a look in her beautiful dark eyes which set all his +pulses bounding and his heart throbbing with a wild, sweet hope--“and +it is not merely from a sense of duty, either, Philip; it is because +I--still love you as in those first beautiful days at Hazelmere.” + +“Oh, my darling!” + +It was a cry of wonder, almost of awe, at this evidence of a full, +free, and absolute pardon. + +His voice was weak and thick; he trembled with excitement, and he +reached forth, grasping her hands in a clasp that was almost painful. + +She smiled as she tried to soothe him. + +“I shall have to stop if you excite yourself thus,” she said; “but I +find that my heart has been a traitor all along; my love has never +died, it has only been benumbed, and the change in you has aroused it +to new life, in spite of every effort to the contrary.” + +“I do not see how there can be an atom of love in it for me, Arley,” +Philip said, in a wondering tone. + +“Had I been a maiden, I never could have confessed this to you, Philip; +but, being your wife, I suppose I have a right to do so,” Arley said, +softly; but her face was averted and covered with blushes as she spoke. + +“It is the most blessed confession ever granted to an erring man; say +it again, Arley,” he pleaded, as if even now he doubted the evidence of +his own senses. + +Lower and lower bent the beautiful flushed face, until her lips almost +touched his ear. + +“I love you, Philip,” she whispered. + +There was a moment of utter silence; then he broke it. + +“Oh, my wife! I never, never dared to hope for this; I never dared +to believe that you could do more than say, ‘I forgive; go and sin no +more;’ and I should have tried to live out my life apart from you, +content even to have gained so much.” + +He wound his arms about her and held her in his trembling clasp. + +“My darling,” he went on, “can it be true? Is it possible that after +all my vileness and cruelty I am to be so blessed as this? How I have +treated you! and yet I have always loved you, Arley, strange as it +may seem. It was a selfish love at first, I own, but genuine, as far +as I was able to love any one besides myself and my ambition. Do you +remember that evening at Hazelmere, when you fastened that flower +upon my coat, and I called you the Wentworth Rose? No one had ever +quickened my pulse as you did then, with your pretty, piquant ways, +and even afterward, when I had won you--chiefly for your money--I own +it with shame, dear--there was a feeling of tenderness for you which I +had never experienced for any other during all my life. But I began to +awake to a deeper, nobler love that day in the court-room at Madrid. My +whole soul was thrilled as I looked into your pure face, and listened +to your noble, appealing words. But the demons of avarice and self-will +were in full possession of me then, and I seemed to have no power to +tear myself from their influence, though for a moment I was almost +upon the point of yielding to you. It was only when I had brought my +evil game to an abrupt end, by making audacious proposals to Lady +Elaine, and she had hurled her scorn and contempt with crushing force +at me, and then, pitying the weak dolt who had been so imbecile, had +appealed to me, something as you had done, to turn my course and become +a man, that I came to my senses and realized the depth to which I had +sunk. Then I realized all I had lost; looking back over the past, and +remembering your patience, your forbearance, your unvarying kindness, +a wild and hopeless love took possession of me, and I vowed that I +would make myself the man you believed me to be when you met me at +Hazelmere. It was the only hope of comfort I had for the future, that I +might eventually come up to your ideal of a noble man. At times I have +nearly gone mad with thinking what happiness might have been mine but +for my own folly; and when I learned of your return I prayed that I +might die, for I felt that it would be continual torture to live here +in London with you, and never be permitted to see you. When you sent +back that money to me, it was like a dagger plunged into my heart, for +it told me that even the comfort of providing for your needs was to be +denied me. But, oh! you have told me that you love me still; you have +acknowledged yourself as my wife; my cup of happiness is almost too +full.” + +Arley thought that it was time for this exciting talk to end. + +It was very sweet to be thus infolded in his arms and to feel that at +last her burdens were all removed, and she could henceforth trust in +his love and feel it to be the most precious thing in life. + +But he was spent with the excitement of the past half hour and needed +rest. + +Gently releasing herself from his clinging arms, she said: + +“You must be quiet for a while now; it will not do for you to talk any +more at present. I fear you are too weary already. Will you try to +sleep?” + +“Yes, my darling, if you will promise not to leave me; for if I wake +and find you gone I shall fear that all this blessededness has been but +a dream.” + +“I will not leave you,” Arley said; “drink this, and then I will sit by +you until you wake.” + +She held a nourishing drink to his lips, and he took it with relish. + +“Now sleep, dear,” she said, and bending, with a shy smile on her lips, +she touched them to his with the first, the only kiss she had ever +given him since their marriage morn. + + + + +CHAPTER XLIV. + +PERFECT FAITH. + + +Philip’s convalescence was quite rapid after the events related in +the last chapter; happiness is a great restorer, and he began to gain +strength so fast that the surgeon told him he would not be obliged to +remain in the hospital more than a fortnight longer at that rate. + +“And, Mrs. Paxton,” he said to Arley, whose face seemed to gain new +beauty and brightness in proportion to Philip’s progress, “one would +almost imagine that you also had been suddenly restored from a severe +illness, for I never saw such a change in any one before, as there has +been in you since your husband began to recover.” + +“It is not strange, is it, that I should rejoice to have my husband +restored to me?” she asked, somewhat tremulously, but he did not dream +how much of significance her question contained, although Philip +understood it well. + +“No--no indeed,” he returned, “but, really, you seem like an entirely +different person from what you were when you came here.” + +And he was right; for she seemed suddenly to have been transformed from +the sad-faced, unhappy woman who had come there expecting to see her +husband die into the bright and beautiful Arley whom we first knew at +Hazelmere. + +She was somewhat more mature and dignified in her bearing, but with +love and happiness blossoming anew in her heart, with every trace of +the old bitterness and despair wiped out, the lines of pain faded from +her face like magic, her beautiful dark eyes grew bright and sparkling, +a lovely flush tinged her cheeks, and her mournful lips were wreathed +with smiles once more. + +The first time that Lady Elaine saw her after her reconciliation with +Philip she exclaimed: + +“Ah! you have good news for me--Philip is better.” + +“Yes, darling,” Arley said, joyfully, “going to get well, and--we are +both better in body and soul.” + +Lady Elaine understood at once, and kissed her with tremulous lips. + +“I am so thankful,” she murmured, “my own sister, may God grant that +all your future be bright--that no other shadow ever fall upon it.” + +Tears sprang to Arley’s eyes, and she mentally cried: + +“Oh, if I could only bring back happiness to her sorrowful heart.” + +“Have you told him who you are?” Lady Elaine asked later. + +“No, not yet--I want to enjoy the luxury of being loved for myself--a +poor, nameless waif, who has not a bit of dower with which to enrich +her lord--for a while,” Arley returned, with shining eyes, adding: +“There will be time enough for disclosures by and by.” + +“Have you been with Miss McAllister ever since your return to London?” +Philip asked her one day, when she had been telling him of her travels +with Lady Herbert and her son. + +“No, not all the time,” Arley answered, a slight flush rising in her +cheek. “I was with her for a while until Lady Elaine decided to open +Mordaunt House once more, and I have been with her, as a sort of +companion, since then.” + +“Ah! then Mordaunt House has been reopened!” said Philip, somewhat +surprised, “how does Lady Hamilton get along without her?” + +“She does not get along without--she has consented to make Mordaunt +House her home whenever she is in London, and Elaine will spend a good +deal of time, as before, at Hazelmere.” + +“What does Lady Elaine think of me?” Philip asked, a deep flush rising +to his brow, and a troubled look in his eyes. + +“She thinks she will be very proud to own you as a ‘brother,’” Arley +had almost said, but she hastily substituted the word “friend.” “She +knows of all that you have been doing during the past year--she honors +you for it, and--she helped make your peace with me.” + +“God bless her!” he said, heartily, “I believe the Lily of Mordaunt is +almost an angel. Poor Wil!” he added, with a heavy sigh. + +“Yes, Elaine is the most lovely character I have ever known. Her sorrow +is the only bitter drop in my cup now,” Arley answered, echoing his +sigh. + +“Where would you like to live, Arley, when I am able to go away from +here?” he asked, at another time. + +“Almost anywhere within our means, dear,” she returned, with downcast +looks. “You know,” she added, with a mischievous glance out of the +corner of her eye, “to quote a homely adage, ‘beggars mustn’t be +choosers.’” + +“Don’t, darling, speak in that way of yourself,” Philip said, really +pained; “but,” he added, after a moment, “I am glad that you are ‘poor +and nameless,’ as you used to say, for now I can prove to you that I +really love you for yourself alone.” + +“Do you dare to call the wife of Philip Paxton ‘nameless?’ Do you +consider me ‘poor’ when I have twenty thousand pounds in my own right +in the Bank of England?” she demanded, shyly. + +“I have the best of the argument, notwithstanding,” he retorted, +smiling, “for you are indebted to me for both name and fortune. I +cannot help glorying in the fact, after all my cruelty in the past, +and my whole future life shall be devoted to you, my beloved. But you +have not yet told me where you would like to live. How would you enjoy +spending a portion of the year in the country?” + +“I should enjoy it exceedingly; but that would interfere with your +business, would it not? Besides, it would be very expensive.” + +“But my business has been in a flourishing condition of late, and will, +doubtless, continue to be when I can get at it again, and I think it +will warrant our consulting our taste and inclination regarding a home.” + +“Will you still keep Eddie?” Arley asked. + +“I should like to, if you do not object,” Philip answered, regarding +her somewhat anxiously. + +“I should object to his being sent away from you,” she said, earnestly. +“I think he is a very promising boy; and since he is so interested in +art, he will make a most agreeable companion for me. Perhaps it would +be wise for us to take rooms in the city for a while, and not be too +hasty about deciding upon a permanent home.” + +She said this merely to test him, and never once suspected that he had +been trying her in the same way. + +“Very well, Arley,” he said, quietly; “I shall be governed by your +wishes in all things. I perceive that you are rather fearful regarding +the cost, but you need not be, for I shall never trouble you hereafter +by living beyond my means,” he concluded, with a peculiar smile. + +She smiled, too, thinking of the fortune which had recently come to +her, and how ample their income would be for almost any kind of life +which they might choose to live; while, on the other hand, his plans +were all matured, and he knew just what he would do. + +Arley had said that she should enjoy the country exceedingly, and, +with a thrill of joy, he had said to himself: “We will go to Elmsford +to live. That grand old place will, after all, become my home. I can +assume the duties of my new position, and--Arley will be Lady Paxton! +I will go there, have everything made ready for her, and then surprise +her with her new home and the secret which I have been keeping from +every one.” + +Eddie was admitted to see Philip as soon as it was thought that he was +able to receive visitors, and his surprise and delight upon learning +that Arley was his Uncle Philip’s wife can be better imagined than +described. + +“There has been a misunderstanding between Mrs. Paxton and myself, for +which I was wholly to blame,” Philip explained to him while Arley was +out of the room. “I do not want the subject ever referred to hereafter, +but I wished you to understand that it was entirely my fault that we +were separated.” + +“Yes, sir,” Eddie said, with a wistful look at him, as if loath to +believe that he could do anything very wrong. “I thought,” he added, +“that she wasn’t very happy when I saw her at the exhibition; but I’m +sure she’s all right now, for she has grown--oh, so much more beautiful +than she was then! May I call her auntie?” + +“If she likes you to do so, yes,” and it is needless to add that Arley +cheerfully granted him the privilege he desired. + +At the end of a fortnight from the time that he began to improve, +Philip was pronounced well enough to leave the hospital. + +“My first work shall be to make a home for my wife,” he said on the +evening before he was to go, “but I shall be obliged to go out of town +on business for a little while first, and it is impossible to take you +with me, much as I dislike being separated from you just now. Will you +go and take possession of my rooms until I return, or would you prefer +to go back to Lady Elaine until I come for you?” + +“I will go to her until you are ready for me, Philip, if you will +allow Eddie to remain with me. I shall be very lonely without you in +a strange place. But,” she added, a shadow flitting over her face, +“is it absolutely necessary that you go? Cannot you send some one to +attend to this business for you? I fear you are not able to travel yet; +besides----” + +“Besides what, my beloved?” he questioned, fondly but gravely, as she +hesitated, and fearing that she was still doubting him somewhat. + +“I cannot bear to let you go away from me, now that I have you back +once more,” she confessed, blushing like a shy girl, and hiding her +face upon his shoulder. + +“Oh! Arley!” he cried, in a voice in which pain and joy were blended, +“I do not deserve that you should love me like this. Oh! if I could +only wipe out from your memory and mine the past two years.” + +“Hush,” she said, gently, “I do not believe that such a wish is right. +Perhaps we both needed just that discipline to fit us for the future.” + +“And is there no root of bitterness left in your heart? Way down in its +deepest recesses is there no scorn or contempt for me?” + +“None, Philip,” she answered, with a grave sweetness; “the remembrance +of the past will gradually grow to be like a dream to me; and now I can +only rejoice to find that the man whom I have loved is not a myth, an +ideal, but a reality. Perhaps, Philip, if you had never been subjected +to the temptations which have so beset you during these two years, you +never would have known the strength of character which you possess.” + +“The weakness you should have said,” he interrupted, bitterly. + +“Nay, you are strong,” she persisted, “for you have come forth from +the battle a conqueror--you are like a hero who has fallen time after +time before his assailing foes, but who has bravely struggled up again +to oppose them; who has been desperately wounded, and will carry the +scars of the conflict to the end of his life, but which go to show that +victory crowned him at last.” + +“Your words are very comforting--you are very lenient in your judgment +of me,” he replied, sorrowfully, “but if I had not dragged you down +with me--if I had not wounded you also, I could bear it better. Do you +know,” he added, earnestly, “that I would like the marriage service to +be repeated over us? That other seems like a mockery--it was a mockery +on my part, though Heaven knows that the vows which I have registered +in my heart, since you have given yourself back to me, are as solemn +and sincere as love and true repentance can make them.” + +Arley lifted her face, all shining with tenderness and joy, and kissed +him. + +“Let us never refer to the past again, please,” she said; “let us, +though we have been husband and wife in the eyes of the world for two +years, date our real marriage from now, and never again go back of it. +I give myself to you without reservation; I love you wholly, perhaps +with even more of depth and tenderness than I did when you asked me, at +Hazelmere, to be your wife. I have perfect faith in you, too, Philip, +so do not let us mar our life with vain regrets or morbid repining. The +only thing that troubles me now is that you must leave me, but--you +will not be long away,” she pleaded, in conclusion. + +“No longer than I can possibly help, dearest. I do not know just how +much of an undertaking I have before me, but you may rest assured that +I shall not remain away from my newly-recovered treasure a day longer +than I can possibly help.” + +The following morning Arley saw him start away on his trip, and then +went back to Mordaunt House, to wait with what patience she could for +his return. + +Lady Elaine welcomed her back with delight. + +“But,” she said, between smiles and tears, “‘there is always a thorn +with a rose,’ and I cannot bear to think that you will, perhaps, have +to leave me again. I am glad and thankful for your happiness, Arley, +but I shall miss my sister.” + +“We will not be separated more than is absolutely necessary,” Arley +returned. “I suppose that Lady Hamilton will claim you a portion of the +time, but I shall insist upon having you the rest.” + +“I expect I shall be between two fires all the time,” Lady Elaine +responded, smiling. “But when are you going to tell Philip of our +discovery, my Lady Alice?” + +“When he returns; we are then to decide about our future home, and I +cannot delay the revelation longer, for, of course, a daughter of the +house of Mordaunt will have a fitting residence in which to entertain +her beloved sister and friends,” Arley said, smiling, and not having +the slightest suspicion that Philip had taken those matters into +his own hands, and was even then discussing with his steward the +elegant furnishings which were to embellish Elmsford in honor of the +home-coming of his wife. + + + + +CHAPTER XLV. + +WIL HAMILTON. + + +Sir Charles Herbert and Ina Wentworth rode nearly an hour in Rotten +Row among the _elite_, who gathered there to display their elegant +costumes and thoroughbreds, when they turned their horses’ heads for a +smart canter out on the ride to Windsor, where, far from the noise and +confusion of the city, with only the birds and whispering boughs of the +over-arching trees for witnesses, Sir Charles told the gentle girl of +his love for her, and won her promise to be his wife. + +“I have been a doomed man,” he said, with a fond smile, when at length +they turned their faces homeward, “ever since that day when I made +my first call upon Mrs. Paxton, after her return. It is strange how +much has hinged upon the mere chance of my being in that court-room in +Madrid, and espousing her cause.” + +“Chance?” Ina repeated, lifting her beautiful eyes to his face with a +look of inquiry. “Do you think that anything in the world happens by +‘chance’?” + +“What else would you call it, dear? The fact of my having wandered +aimlessly into that court just at that particular time? I had not the +least object, beyond idle curiosity to see how they conducted legal +affairs in Spain.” + +“I believe that you were sent to save Arley, just as you did save +her. I think people are too apt to attribute many events of life to +‘chance,’ simply because they do not realize what power it is that +impels and governs them--they imagine them to be merely ‘happenings,’ +but nothing ‘happens.’ God rules,” Ina concluded, reverently. + +“And always for the best, I suppose you would say, since you seem to +trust Him so implicitly,” Sir Charles returned, regarding her gravely. + +“Yes, always for the best,” she answered, with sweet seriousness. + +“Then, according to your theory, God has given you to me. I bless Him +for his gift,” Sir Charles said, drawing nearer to look down into those +wonderful blue-gray eyes, and speaking with thrilling earnestness. + +“Yes, he has given us to each other,” Ina replied, with a slight +trembling of her red lips. “How happy I am!” she added, naively, a +moment after. “Who would ever have believed when I was a poor little +waif in that fisherman’s hut, that so much blessedness was laid up for +me in the future!” + +Sir Charles reached out and took possession of the small, +prettily-gloved hand that rested upon the pommel of the saddle. + +“My darling, what blessedness I have secured for the remainder of my +life, since I am to have so sweet and gentle a monitor ever by my side. +But,” with a searching glance into her blushing face, “how will your +theory hold good in connection with Mrs. Paxton’s sad experience, and +the cruel bereavement which has fallen upon Lady Elaine Warburton?” + +“It is not ‘my theory,’ it is not a ‘theory,’ at all,” Ina returned, +earnestly. “It is a living truth. God’s ways are always right and best. +He can see beyond and over all. He is like an experienced gardener who +knows just how to prune, and graft, and train the plants under his +care; He sometimes cuts off the most brilliant buds, the most promising +shoots, in a way which, to those not understanding his motive, would +seem like the most wanton destruction, when in reality the future life +and beauty of the plant depended upon just that kind of treatment.” + +“But Arley Paxton would tell you that her life was ruined. Lady Elaine +would say that she does not expect any real happiness this side of +heaven,” Sir Charles said, thoughtfully. + +“I hardly think that either of them would say just that,” Ina returned, +smiling, “although they both believe that much of sorrow will be +mingled with all their future; but Arley is a better, a stronger woman +already, for the trouble which she has had to bear, and she may live +to see the wisdom of it; if she does not she will surely realize it +hereafter; while Lady Elaine carries nothing but blessing with her +wherever she goes. I have been told that some one has named her the +‘Lily of Mordaunt,’ and most fittingly, I think, for her life is as +full of beauty and fragrance as a lily.” + +“But it is very sad that her prospects should have been so destroyed.” + +“Yes, it is sad,” Ina said, with a wistful look up into the handsome +face by her side. “I fear I could not bear such a trial with the +patience and sweetness which she has manifested.” + +“We will not allow such a fear to mar this day,” Sir Charles said, with +a fond pressure of the hand which he still held. “And now, with your +permission, I am going home with you to tell Miss McAllister that I +have won her treasure. Will she be very severe upon me, do you think?” + +Ina broke into a low, musical laugh, though the beautiful color swept +over her whole face at the words. + +“Auntie would never do or say anything to make any one unhappy,” she +said. + +“Would she not?” returned Sir Charles, with a mischievous glance; “then +I shall tell her that two months is all the time I shall allow my +bride-elect for necessary preparations.” + +“Oh, Sir Charles----” Ina began, in a startled tone. + +“Why should I not have you, my darling, just as soon as possible?” +asked the fond lover, and she could not tell “why not.” + +Miss McAllister did not say him nay, either; she most heartily approved +of Sir Charles Herbert in every way, and would oppose no obstacles to +his wishes. + +“I am old, my dear,” she said to Ina, when the young girl said that +“two months” seemed “so soon,” and “we cannot tell what the coming +winter may have in store for us, so I should like to see you a happy +wife while I can enjoy and share in your happiness.” + +So the day was set, and preparations immediately begun for the +approaching wedding, though Ina, after learning of Philip’s serious +accident and subsequent illness, and that Arley had gone to him, +stipulated that if additional sorrow came to the girl whom she had +learned to love so fondly, the marriage should be delayed a while out +of sympathy for her. + +But it was to be happiness, instead of sorrow for her, as we have +already learned, and as soon as Philip left the hospital and went away +to transact his “important business,” she threw herself into all Ina’s +plans in the heartiest manner. + +“You have won a treasure,” she said to her, the first time she saw her +after the engagement; “Sir Charles is one of the best men the world +ever contained, and I believe he is going to have one of the sweetest +wives, too.” + +One day after Philip’s departure, she went to see Miss McAllister, +and found Ina surrounded by a host of dainty things pertaining to her +trousseau, and her face lighted with interest. + +“You must let me help you about everything,” she said. “Philip will +probably be away some time, and I must have something to occupy my time +to keep me from feeling my loneliness.” + +“There is plenty of work to be done,” Miss McAllister answered, fondly +regarding the smiling, happy face, while a little song of thanksgiving +thrilled her heart for the joy that had returned to her, “and we will +engage you to keep you just as busy as you desire to be; so you may +pull off your gloves and begin at once.” + +Laughing softly, she wheeled up before her a table which was covered +with piles of invitations waiting to be folded and put into their +envelopes and directed; and Arley, throwing aside her hat and mantle, +sat down and copied names until her fingers ached. + +Every day after that she was there at her post to help, sometimes +bringing Lady Elaine with her though not very often, for the duties +which she had assumed since coming to London, such as looking up and +befriending the poor and sick, interfered with her spending much time +upon wedding finery, although she was often tempted to spend the day +with those two eager, happy girls. + +It often caused her a pang as she looked upon them and thought how +bright the future looked to them; but it was only momentary, for every +day the sweet spirit seemed to become more sweet and pure, like fine +gold from the refiner’s fire, until she was able to reflect and partake +of the happiness of those around her. + +One day, as the wedding drew near, Arley stayed a little later than +usual at Miss McAllister’s. + +She did not realize in the bright, cheerful rooms, while her busy +fingers helped to fashion “pretty nothings” for the fair bride-elect, +that it could be so dark and dismal outside; but it was quite +unpleasant, and as she stepped into her carriage to return to Mordaunt +House she shivered with a sudden chill. + +She would have been glad to go straight home, but she had promised to +do an errand for Lady Hamilton at a drug store, and so she gave her +orders to the driver and was whirled away to Oxford street. + +Here, instead of getting out herself, she gave her prescription to +the coachman, asking him to get it put up for her, which he was +very willing to do, and she sat in the carriage, waiting somewhat +impatiently, while he was gone. + +During this time a gentleman passed the carriage, and, looking +up, saw the beautiful face at the window looking forth into the +brilliantly-lighted store. + +Arley, however, had not heeded him; she had not heard the low +exclamation which he had uttered upon seeing her, or noticed that after +passing he had turned again and came up close to the carriage, where he +stood somewhat in the shadow of it. + +Her thoughts were full of Philip, from whom she had received a long +letter that day, and she was wondering what the nature of his business +could be to detain him from her so long. + +Suddenly a voice attested her attention--a voice which sent her heart +leaping into her throat, and strange prickling pains flying over her +whole body; turning her face as white as death itself could have made +it, and making her head reel dizzily. + +“Arley--Mrs. Paxton,” it said out of the chill darkness. “I do not wish +to startle you, for I know what you believe; but I thought if I could +speak to you and you should recognize my voice, it might prepare you +for the rest.” + +Arley clutched at the side of the carriage; she felt as if ten thousand +thunders were crashing in her ears, her voice refused to come at her +bidding, her tongue seemed paralyzed and powerless to speak. + +Apparently the man outside could see her face, and realized how greatly +she was agitated, for he continued gently: + +“Don’t be frightened. I would not have startled you for anything; but I +long for the sound of a familiar voice; speak, Arley, and tell me that +you recognize me--that you are glad to see me.” + +Then, indeed, Arley found voice and sense. + +Leaning forward from the carriage window, she extended both her hands +and cried in trembling tones: + +“Where are you? Come here and let me look into your face. Oh, Wil! can +it be possible, or am I asleep and dreaming that you have come back?” + +Before she had half completed her eager sentence, she felt her hands +grasped in a strong, warm clasp--a figure tall and manly stood at the +window, and the face of Wil Hamilton, brave, noble Wil, was looking +down into hers, yet quivering in every muscle with mingled gladness and +emotion. + +“No, you are not dreaming, Arley, though I do not wonder that you +should fear it, after believing me dead for so long; but I am really +and truly Wil--no myth, no spirit, but present in the body, though it +is almost a miracle that I am. I have just arrived from Glasgow via the +Grand Midland, and as it was too late to go down to Hazelmere, I was +on my way to the Langham--walking, for I was too nervous and excited +to be cooped up in a carriage--when, passing you, the light from the +store struck full upon your face, and I recognized you instantly. I did +not dare to present myself to you too suddenly, for I feared to startle +you, and it seems that I frightened you sufficiently as it was.” + +“Oh, Wil, I cannot believe it even yet,” Arley said, in scarcely +articulate tones, and still clinging to his hands. “Get in here,” +she continued, excitedly, while she moved to make room for him, “and +I will take you home with me. Your father and mother are here in +London--Elaine, too; how shall we ever break this glad news to them? +and, oh! we have so much to tell you, too.” + +The excited girl hardly knew what she was saying, and laughed +nervously, almost hysterically, as she concluded. + +Wil Hamilton, scarcely less agitated, availed himself of her invitation +and entered the carriage, seating himself opposite her. + +“My father and mother here! Elaine, too!” he repeated, in trembling +tones. “Are they well? Oh! shall I see them to-night?” + +“Yes, all well, and you shall see them in less than an hour; but oh! +Wil, they have been heartbroken for you,” and Arley here broke down, +sobbing for very joy. + +“I know,” he answered, huskily; “but I am very thankful that they are +here--it seemed an age to wait until to-morrow. I am afraid, however, +that it will never do for me to go in upon them suddenly; I have upset +you completely, and I fear it would be even worse with them. Arley, you +must go home to them first, and break the news to them as gently as +possible, then I will come later,” Wil concluded, anxiously. + +“It is said that joy never kills,” Arley replied, smiling through her +tears; “but if you could give me such a shock, I should really fear for +them, especially for your mother.” + +“Yes--yes, they must be prepared first; but where are they?” + +“At Mordaunt House.” + +“At Mordaunt House!” he repeated, astonished; “how is that?” + +“Elaine thought it would be pleasanter to be there by themselves in +London than to be in a hotel.” + +Arley thought this explanation would be sufficient for the present. + +“Have they grieved for me very sorely?” he asked, brokenly. + +“Oh, it has been too sad for anything, Wil,” Arley replied, weeping +afresh; “it has nearly killed Sir Anthony and Lady Hamilton, and Elaine +was crushed at first, but at the sight of their grief she seemed to lay +away herself entirely, and has been like a pale, sweet saint whose +mission it was to comfort them.” + +“Oh, it has been hard--hard!” Wil groaned, as the vision of their grief +and the remembrance of his own experience rose up before him. + +“Yes, I do not know how any of them have borne it; but I am nearly wild +to learn all that has happened to you, Wil. I will not question you +now, though; I will restrain my curiosity until you have seen them,” +Arley said; then she added: “I have some strange news for you, too. You +remember the discoveries that were made upon my wedding day?” + +“Yes.” + +“You know I was bereft of name and fortune at one fell blow; but +wonderful things have happened since. Elaine obtained a clew, and, +following it up, has unraveled all the tangled skein of my life by her +perseverance and patience; and just think, Wil, I have turned out to be +a ‘lady of high degree.’” + +“Indeed! That is a discovery worth making,” he said, greatly interested. + +“Yes; and--you would never guess it, so I may as well tell you--she has +proved that I am her own sister--the poor little Alice who was supposed +to have been lost at sea.” + +“Arley! It cannot be possible!” Wil exclaimed, in astonishment. + +“Oh, but it is, my dear brother that is to be; and,” she added, with +something of her old sauciness--“and your fair bride-elect has lost +half her fortune by the means.” + +“Only give me my bride, and I care nothing for the fortune,” he +returned, eagerly; then continued: “But really, Arley, though +astonished, I am delighted. No arrangement could have suited me better. +But shall you assume, or have you assumed, the name of Lady Alice?” + +“No; every one knows me by the name of Arley, and it would be very +awkward to change; besides, the name is not essential. But here comes +Robert,” she added, as the coachman made his appearance. + +As he handed her the parcel which he had purchased, he apologized for +having kept her waiting so long, saying there were several to be waited +upon before him; but Arley replied pleasantly: + +“Never mind. I have met a friend who will go home with me, and I want +you to drive us there as quickly as possible.” + +“Oh,” she continued to Wil, as Robert sprang to his seat to obey, “if +Philip was only here to-night, what a happy party we should make! He is +out of town upon business.” + +On their way to Mordaunt House they planned that Arley should enter as +if nothing unusual had occurred, while Robert should drive Wil around +to the stable, where he should remain in the coachman’s room until she +should ring his bell, which was connected with the house and was used +to summon him when wanted, when he was to come to a side door, where +she would admit him and conduct him to his loved ones. + +But when the carriage stopped and she alighted and went up the steps +her heart beat so rapidly and she trembled so she feared that she would +break down and frighten everybody nearly to death by her weakness +before she could prepare them to receive the wanderer. + +Lady Elaine was just coming downstairs as she entered, and cried out +when she saw her: + +“How pale you are, Arley! Are you ill? And what made you so late?” + +Arley was so glad of that last question as a loophole. + +“Oh, you know, there is no end to bridal finery,” she said, with a +nervous laugh, and trying hard to conquer her trembling; “and it was +later than usual when I started to come home.” + +“Yes, I know; and you have worked over said bridal finery until you are +tired out. That is why you are so pale. Come up to my room, and let me +help you off with your things, and brush your hair for you. You are +damp, and shivering, and cold, and I fear you will be ill.” + +Lady Elaine regarded her anxiously, and, winding an arm about her, +gently forced her upstairs, and led her into her own bright boudoir. + + + + +CHAPTER XLVI. + +MIMOSA. + + +When Wil Hamilton, in all the strength of his young manhood, started +out with Major Powell’s expedition, he was full of enthusiasm over his +anticipated adventures. + +Not a thought of danger or a suspicion of the terrible ordeal which +lay before him entered his mind or cast a shadow over the bright hopes +which animated him. + +He believed that the experiences which were to come would be of +inestimable value to him in his future career, and to be permitted to +make one of the great explorer’s company was an honor which he could +not forego. + +His voyage from Glasgow to New York was delightful, for the weather was +all to be desired, and he found many a pleasant _compagnon de voyage_. + +He proceeded to Chicago, where the major and the remainder of his +company were awaiting him, and they started out at once for the +unexplored region of the Colorado. + +All went well until that fatal evening, just as the sun was going down, +the party passed along the brow of a precipice toward an open space a +little beyond, which they had seen with their glasses, and which they +had fixed upon as their halting-place for the night. + +No one thought of any especial danger--they had been in many places +even more perilous than that, and not a fear for their safety had +disturbed them--and no one dreamed of the fearful calamity about to +overtake one of their number. + +Wil had dismounted from his pony and was leading it along the narrow +path, having more care for the animal than for himself. + +He never knew how it happened that he came to be so near the edge +of the precipice, nor how he could have become so heedless; but he +suddenly stepped upon a rolling stone, lost his hold upon the bridle +of his horse, felt himself plunging down--down with frightful velocity +through the deepening gloom--and knew no more until long afterward +he awoke to find himself in a strange, wild place and surrounded by +strange, wild faces. + +He learned afterward that his fearful fall had been broken midway by +a tree which grew almost at right angles out of the rocks, and whose +dense foliage had probably been the means of saving his life. + +For one terrible moment he had hung suspended among its branches, then +his form had slipped from among them and dropped into the chasm below. + +Two Indians were lurking there among the brakes and brambles which grew +there rank and green. + +They had been tracking the exploring party all day, whether from +motives of plunder or curiosity was never ascertained, but they had +known of a path which wound about the base of the precipice--an easier +and less dangerous one--and thus it was that day they were hiding +there at the moment he shot over the summit, yet they made no sound, +no effort to save him. They saw him as he hung so helplessly among the +branches of that tree, and were as motionless as statues until, in less +time than it could possibly be told, he dropped limp and senseless +among the brakes at their feet. + +Then they bent forward, expecting to find him dead. But there were +signs of life about the unfortunate man, though he was badly scratched +and bruised, and, without doubt, very seriously, if not fatally injured. + +A few swift gestures, a few brief sentences, spoken with Indian +caution, and they stooped, gathered up their helpless captive and bore +him swiftly and noiselessly from the spot. + +His hat had fallen almost where he had lain; a little farther on his +handkerchief, which was in the lower side-pocket of his coat, caught +upon some bushes as they bore him away, and these two articles were all +that remained to tell the story of his awful plunge, thus giving rise +to the conjecture that some wild animal had dragged him to its lair and +there devoured him. + +The path at the base of the precipice was a winding one, and the +Indians, with their burden, had long been out of sight when the +horrified party above recovered themselves sufficiently to seek for +their comrade. + +They could see nothing from the brow of the precipice, for daylight was +fast departing and everything in those mysterious depths was shrouded +in gloom. + +But once aroused to a sense of their duty, they made their way with all +possible dispatch down the other side of the mountain and forced their +way into the cañon to search for Wil’s body. They had no hope that they +should find him living, but they hoped at least to find his remains and +give them Christian burial. + +They found the spot where he had fallen among the brakes and brambles, +for they were broken and displaced, and there were marks of blood. His +hat was found, and at some distance from it, as they searched with +blanched and anxious faces, they picked up his handkerchief, but the +body of their comrade had most mysteriously disappeared. + +In that wilderness, where they supposed there was not a human being +besides themselves, it was but natural that they should arrive at the +conclusion which they did, and after a long and fruitless search for +the lair of the supposed despoiler, they were obliged to leave the +place, though it was with sorrowful faces and heavy hearts that they +did so. + +But less than five miles away there was an Indian camp, and thither +poor Wil was borne as rapidly as the roughness of the ground and the +state of his helplessness would permit. + +Great astonishment and curiosity were manifested by the tribe when +their scouts returned, not laden with deer and game, as they had +expected, but bearing instead a human body, and that of a paleface. + +The “medicine-man” was immediately called to attend to him; an +examination was made into the white man’s injuries, and an arm and leg +were found to be broken, while his body was badly bruised, and it was +feared that there might be internal injuries which would prove fatal. + +He was taken to a wigwam, where his broken bones were not unskillfully +set and bandaged, and his bruised body anointed with some compound +known only to those rude people; and then he was laid upon a +comfortable couch of skins, a watcher was placed beside him, and then +nothing more could be done for him but to wait until consciousness +should resume its sway, or death should extinguish the spark of life +which still remained in him. + +It was several days before he came to himself sufficiently to realize +anything of what had happened to him, and then he was greatly surprised +to hear all about him strange voices speaking an unknown tongue, and to +find himself guarded by a stately, grave-visaged red man. + +He questioned him regarding his situation, but the Indian could not, or +pretended he could not, understand anything that he said. + +All his wants and needs, however, were most kindly attended to; he +was nourished with delicious broths, made from venison and wild game; +cooling drinks, prepared from some kind of fruit, were always on +hand, and some one constantly near to wait upon him, while the doctor +of the tribe paid him daily visits, examining into the state of his +injuries, rubbing and anointing him in a most thorough manner, and then +departing, uttering a series of grunts, satisfactory or otherwise, as +the case might be. + +Thus several weeks passed by, and Wil was chained to that couch of +skins by weakness and his broken limbs. + +It was very tedious, very trying, to be thus bound, not only hand and +foot, for a weight had been attached to his foot to keep his limb in +a proper position, but to be tongue-tied, also. He was anxious, of +course, to communicate with his party, for he knew that they must be in +great distress on his account, but it was impossible, for not a word or +a gesture which did not pertain to his bodily comfort was apparently +comprehended, and there, in the heart of the wilderness, miles and +miles away from any signs of civilization, he was obliged to bear his +helplessness with what patience he could. + +He was sore and lame from the crown of his head to the soles of his +feet; the condition of his broken leg would not admit of any but a +reclining position, and with nothing to pass away the time, or no one +to speak a word to him, it is not to be wondered at that he grew +heartsick and almost discouraged. + +One day he lay in his wigwam alone, thinking sadly of home and home +friends, longing for the sound of his father’s hearty voice, for the +touch of his mother’s hand upon his fevered forehead, and a smile of +affection from his beloved one, and feeling very rebellious over his +hard lot, when he suddenly became conscious that a pair of sharp, black +eyes were peering in upon him from between the curtains of his wigwam, +and evidently watching him with the keenest interest. + +He made a gesture of impatience and turned his face away, for he was in +a mood to have the slightest thing irritate him, and it was unpleasant +to be thus spied upon and examined as if he were some natural curiosity. + +But the object of his aversion, instead of disappearing upon being +discovered, parted the curtains and stepped boldly within his tent. + +It was a young Indian, of perhaps twenty-five years, tall, straight as +an arrow, and graceful in every movement of his lithe body as a young +forest tree. + +His face was bright and intelligent, and beamed with a kindly +expression as he gazed down upon the helpless man before him, while +the profusion of wampum which he bore proclaimed him to be a person of +considerable importance in the tribe. + +Wil did not attempt to speak to him, for he believed that it would be +as useless as his previous efforts to make himself understood, but to +his surprise the young man addressed him in very good English. + +“Is the paleface better? Are his wounds healing?” he asked. + +Wil was so delighted to hear his mother-tongue once more that his face +brightened like magic, and he answered with all the courtesy of which +he was master: + +“Yes, thank you, I am better, though, of course, I am still helpless on +account of my broken bones.” + +The young Indian bowed gravely, while his keen eyes seemed to be +studying the worn, though still handsome countenance of the stranger. + +“The paleface may be thankful that he is here, even with broken bones,” +he said, briefly. + +“That is so,” Wil answered, heartily, “and though I would much prefer +to be with my own friends, yet your people have given me very kind +care, and I am very grateful.” + +The young brave’s face relaxed a trifle, as if the appreciative words +had pleased him. + +“I have been very lonely,” Wil continued, “for I could talk with none. +I am glad to find some one who speaks the English language.” + +Again the brave merely bowed in reply. + +“How far are we from a white settlement?” Wil inquired, anxious to +learn something regarding his situation. + +The Indian frowned slightly. + +“Ten days’ march for the red man, fifteen days’ march for the +paleface,” he replied, tersely. + +Wil sighed heavily. That meant many, very many miles from civilization. +There was no help for him, except from some such quarter, and he might +be in the hands of a band of hostile savages. + +“Would one of your braves carry a letter to the nearest post office for +me?” he asked, after a moment of thought. + +“Ugh? Isn’t the paleface comfortable?” the Indian demanded, with a +quick flash of his eye. + +“Oh, yes, as comfortable as possible under the circumstances; but my +friends will be very anxious about me, and I wish to relieve them of +their suspense.” + +“Paleface use big words; poor Indian no see,” was the somewhat scornful +rejoinder. “But,” pointing to the bandaged arm, “how can he make a +letter?” + +“Oh, I could manage with my other hand to let them know that I am not +dead, as I know they must believe me,” Wil said. + +The brave shrugged his shoulders. + +“Ugh, too warm for Indian to go to village, and the chief goes north as +the sun gets higher.” + +“North? Does that mean farther away?” Wil asked, with a sinking heart. + +“It means to the heart of the cool forest, where the hot sun does +not burn, where the trees are greenest and the wild bird’s songs are +sweetest,” assented the Indian, with kindling eyes; then turning +abruptly he left the tent. + +Wil saw nothing of him again for more than a week, and he began to fear +that he had offended him by his request; but one morning he appeared +to him as suddenly as before, bearing in his strong hand a quaint +little basket, made from the bark of the white birch, and filled with +delicious strawberries, which he silently presented to him. + +Wil thanked him with his brightest smile, then with tact lured him to +talk for half an hour or more, while he ate his berries. + +He said not a word this time about sending letters to his friends, for +he feared to drive him away as before, and instinctively feeling that +it was a subject which would have to be handled with great delicacy. + +“Perhaps they expect to obtain a large ransom by detaining me thus,” he +thought, and resolved that he would do all that he could to hasten his +recovery and regain the use of his limbs, for in his present crippled +state he could not hope to escape from his captors, even if a favorable +opportunity should offer. + +In conversing with the young Indian, who, he learned, was the only son +of the chief of the tribe, he told him what the object of the party +with which he was traveling at the time of the accident had been; he +told him that they were studying the formation of rocks and minerals, +together with flowers and plants, and he was surprised to see with how +much interest he listened to him. + +But he was even more surprised by the practical use which he made +of what he had heard, for one morning shortly after he brought him +a hunting-pouch filled with a variety of stones, some of them quite +valuable specimens of different kinds of ore. + +He was delighted with them, pointing out their peculiarities and +explaining something of their formation in a way that interested +the young brave greatly; and after that he had an abundance of +specimens, both mineral and botanical, and the next month or two passed +comparatively rapid. + +By the end of that time he was able to get about a little with the +aid of a rude crutch which had been fashioned for him and some one to +steady his feeble steps; and thus he began to mingle with the tribe +whose captive he had become. + +He found every one kindly disposed toward him and willing to wait upon +him or run at his lightest bidding, but he was conscious that he was +constantly watched. + +He was never left alone, and as he grew stronger and better able to +help himself some member of the tribe always accompanied him wherever +he went, and it was evident that they did not intend to allow him even +the smallest chance to elude them. + +He finally asked Arrow--for that was the name of the chief’s son--why +he was not allowed to communicate with his friends. + +The face of the young man at once grew dark. + +“Indian very poor,” he said, sullenly; “white man drive, drive him away +from his hunting-grounds until nothing left; a little corn, little +venison, and no gold to buy. He take care of paleface now more than +three moons; give him back arm, leg, strength, and when the white +man’s friends send gold, he can go.” + +“Is that all?” Wil exclaimed, eagerly. “Why did you not tell me this +before? You shall have gold; you deserve to be paid for all your care +and kindness, and I should never have thought of going away without +paying you handsomely for what your people have done.” + +“Ugh,” Arrow grunted, but there was a strange look in his keen eyes. + +“How much gold do you want?” Wil asked, vainly imagining that perhaps +he might have enough by him to purchase his freedom and a guide to some +town. + +“When the paleface is ready to pay one thousand American dollars to the +chief, my father, then perhaps Arrow may get leave to take him back to +his people,” was the wary answer. + +Wil flushed hotly. + +A thousand dollars was a large sum, a very unjust amount to demand. A +hundred would have been liberal remuneration for the care and attention +he had received. + +He had a letter of credit for three times the sum Arrow mentioned, but +unless he could take it to a bank in some large city it was as useless +as so much blank paper to him. + +Perhaps, however, if he could make his captors understand this they +might allow him to go with an attendant to draw the money, and then, +once under the protection of his own people, he would feel at liberty +to name the sum which he should pay them. + +He tried to explain the matter to Arrow, and to persuade him to go with +him to draw the money. + +“Why not send Indian alone?” the young man asked, cautiously, +and viewing the, to him, meaningless characters of the letter +contemptuously. + +“Because the banks will not pay money to any one but me, and not then +until I write my name in their books.” + +A cunning gleam shot into the red man’s eyes. + +“That is not gold or silver!” he cried, scornfully. “White man never +pay poor Indian anything. He say ‘pay,’ but when he enters the wigwam +of his own people--they strong, Indian weak--and they drive him back +into the forest empty and hungry.” + +Again the hot blood mounted in Wil’s face at being thus suspected. + +“But I tell you I want to pay you handsomely. I should be glad to give +you money now if I had it, and if you will go with me I will promise +that no harm shall come to you, and you shall not be driven back empty +and hungry. I know this is not gold,” he added, touching his letter, +“but it will bring me gold when I take it to a bank.” + +But Arrow shrugged his shoulders, a derisive smile still curling his +lips. + +“White men all cheats,” he said, laconically and with sullen obstinacy, +and Wil saw that some other plan would have to be devised for his +liberation, but he was nearly heartsick and discouraged. + +Shortly afterward, as he lay upon his couch of robes, thinking dismally +upon his situation, and wondering what would be the end of it, he was +disturbed by a slight noise at the entrance of his wigwam. + +Glancing up somewhat impatiently he saw to his surprise a delicate, +oval face, the face of a young and beautiful girl, looking wistfully in +upon him. + +He could see nothing but her face, with its coal-black eyes, with their +straight, smooth brows, its rosy cheeks and scarlet lips. + +Glad of anything to break the monotony of his life, he beckoned to her +with his hand, saying in a gentle tone: + +“Come in if you like.” + +The curtains parted at his invitation, and an Indian maiden of +seventeen entered and stood before him. + +She was slender and graceful as a young sapling, her form was perfect +and fully developed, and she had hands and feet such as a London belle +might have envied. Her complexion was not nearly as swarthy as the +majority of her tribe; her features were delicate and regular, and Wil, +as he looked upon her, wondered at her beauty. + +Her hair, instead of hanging straight and limp about her cheeks, as the +Indians usually wore it, had been gathered back and tied with bright +ribbons, thus showing her small, well-shaped head to advantage. + +She wore a short robe of some light skin, elaborately embroidered with +wampum; the moccasins upon her little feet were made to match it, +and--wonderful departure!--her lithe limbs were actually incased in +stockings, a thing unheard of before among that savage tribe. + +She was a bright, dainty creature, and in her hands she held a bunch of +brilliant flowers, trophies of a long and diligent search. + +“The paleface is lonely,” she said, in a low, musical voice, and +bending a glance of compassion upon his sad countenance. + +“Yes, I am lonely,” Wil sighed. “But who are you?” + +“Mimosa--Arrow’s sister,” she answered, simply. + +“I have never seen you before,” Wil said, wondering where she had been +all the time. + +She shook her head and showed her white teeth in a dazzling smile; then +drawing herself up with a proud gesture, she returned: + +“The daughter of the chief was told she must not see the paleface.” + +“Then how does it happen that you are here now?” he asked, in surprise, +and wondering at her correct language. + +Again that dazzling smile, and the color deepened in her cheek. + +“The chief has gone toward the rising sun. Arrow hunts the deer in the +forest, and the squaw sleeps in the wigwam,” she said, in a tone of +veiled defiance. + +“You mean that you have stolen away to see me while no one can know +it?” Wil said, looking amused, and admiring this graceful little savage +more and more. + +She nodded an assent; then taking a step forward, she half knelt before +him and held out her beautiful flowers to him. + +“You are very kind,” he said, sitting up and taking them from her. +“Where did you gather such lovely blossoms?” + +“Yonder where the eagles make their nests,” she replied, with a gesture +to indicate the mountains above them. + + + + +CHAPTER XLVII. + +HOMEWARD BOUND. + + +“Did you climb those crags?” he cried, astonished. + +She shrugged her pretty shoulders, while her lips curled a trifle. + +“The chamois is not more sure-footed than Mimosa,” she said, briefly. + +“Do you love flowers?” Wil asked, with a growing interest in her. + +The quick color flashed over her face like a glow of light. + +“They are the smiles of the Great Spirit,” she said, reverentially, +while her eyes rested fondly upon the gay colors in his hand. + +“You do love them, or you never would have said that,” Wil returned, +earnestly, and deeply touched by the pretty smile; “and so do I. I am +very thankful to you for thinking of me in my loneliness. But I have +nothing to give you in return, unless you will let me choose one of +these for you to wear as a token of my gratitude.” + +“To wear?” she repeated, blankly, not comprehending his meaning at all. + +“Yes. In my country, when a gentleman gives a lady a flower, if she +cares anything for it, she pins it at her throat, or wears it in her +belt. Here is this beautiful scarlet bell, which I will choose for you, +as my thank-offering for the bouquet.” + +He held it out to her as he spoke and she advanced shyly to take it, +her eyes glowing, and the rich color sweeping up to her forehead as her +fingers touched his in the act. + +“I should be glad if you could come and see me again, Mimosa,” Wil +said, as she was turning, without a word, to leave him. + +“Mimosa has seen the paleface often, but he knew it not; he was +sleeping, and the braves were on the trail,” she returned, thus +indicating that it was only by stealth that she dared to approach his +wigwam. + +Then turning, she disappeared, like some bright bird, and the place +seemed even more gloomy than before to its sad-hearted occupant. + +Every day after Mimosa’s brief visit to him Wil received a lovely +bouquet of flowers. Sometimes they were thrust just inside his curtains +by a small, delicately-formed hand, which quickly disappeared again +like a frightened bird; sometimes they were laid upon his pillow, where +he would find them on his return from a walk, or they would be dropped +in the very path at his feet from some invisible source above. + +But he was at no loss to know to whom he was indebted for these +choice floral offerings, although it was long before he had another +opportunity to converse with the chieftain’s beautiful daughter. + +Now and then he caught a glimpse of her as she passed to and fro about +her duties or mingled with the other maidens of the camp; and once or +twice, when he ventured near a group of which she formed the center, +and met the glance of her dark, bright eyes, he marked the sudden flash +which leaped into them, and the vivid flush which burned upon her +cheeks. + +Not having any opportunity to thank her for her thoughtful attentions, +he could think of no other way to evince his appreciation than to wear +her colors, so he would often tuck one of her bright flowers in his +buttonhole, and wear it until it drooped and faded. + +Now and then he would find a small basket of fruit in his tent--berries +of various kinds; and one day he discovered upon his couch an exquisite +belt of wampum, which, he did not doubt, had been wrought by the +dainty fingers of the chieftain’s daughter. + +Four months had passed since his captivity began, and he was able now +to walk without a crutch, using only a stout stick to favor his weaker +limb. He was well and strong in every other respect, and he began to +have some desperate idea of taking matters into his own hands and +strive to get away from the wilderness and his uncongenial companions. + +With this in view, he often went out to sit with the braves around +the council fires; and though he could not understand a word of their +language, he could sometimes gather something of their meaning from +their glance and gestures. + +In this way he was now brought in frequent contact with Mimosa, as the +maidens were often called to wait upon the braves, and she was always +eager to be among them. + +Occasionally she would stop in an off-hand manner near Wil, and speak +a low word or two with him, and he could not fail to see that she +entertained the kindest of feelings toward him. + +“Perhaps,” he thought, after one of those brief interviews with her, “I +may be able to persuade her to assist me to escape.” + +One evening, after an excessively warm and sultry day, the men, instead +of gathering in their usual circle, threw themselves about anywhere, +where they could find the coolest spot of ground, while beneath a +stately forest tree a knot of gay maidens had gathered to chat in the +growing dusk. + +Wil was very restless, and oh! so bitterly homesick. He could neither +sit nor lie anywhere quietly, but paced back and forth in the open +space before the wigwams, extending his walk a little farther every +time he turned. + +He had put a bright cardinal flower in his buttonhole before leaving +his tent, hoping thus to attract Mimosa’s attention; for he had +resolved to obtain an interview with her before he slept, if possible, +and put her regard for him to a test. + +It was not long before he espied her sitting by herself just a little +apart from the group of girls before mentioned. + +Little by little he extended his pacings in that direction, until he +passed the spot where she sat twice, and without appearing to notice +that she was there. + +He turned the third time, and just as he came opposite her the cardinal +flower that he had worn dropped just at her feet. He stooped to pick it +up, and said, in a low, appealing tone: + +“Will Mimosa come to the back of the tent by and by? I have a few words +to say to her.” + +She did not even look up at him as she briefly answered: + +“Yes, paleface, she will come.” + +The closest observer would not have mistrusted that they had spoken to +each other. He had, to all appearance, dropped a flower, stooped an +instant to recover it, and then passed on. + +Once or twice he paced back and forth again, then, yawning wearily, he +leisurely sauntered away to his tent. + +Mimosa watched him from beneath her dusky lashes, but not a movement +betrayed that she was in any way interested in his action, and, after +he had disappeared, her head gradually sank forward until it almost +rested upon her bosom, while her body swayed back and forth as if +overcome with sleep. + +A burst of merriment appeared suddenly to awake her, making her look +up, to find several pairs of eyes mirthfully regarding her, and +the young girls, gathering about her, began to banter her upon her +drowsiness at that early hour of the evening. + +This, as she had intended, gave her an excuse for retiring, and, +rising, she made some laughing rejoinder, and then ran lightly away to +her own wigwam. + +Half an hour later Wil heard a gentle scratching on the cloth of his +tent just by his pillow. + +“Mimosa,” he whispered. + +“Let the paleface speak; Mimosa will listen,” came in a low, sweet tone +to him. + +“Mimosa, why do your people hold me a captive here?” he asked. + +“Is not the paleface kindly treated?” + +“Yes, but I long for my own land and my own people.” + +Wil thought he heard a gentle sigh at this, but the next moment she +answered, though her voice did not sound quite natural. + +“The paleface would make a brave warrior. If he could be content, he +might become a great chief by and by.” + +“No, no, that would be impossible,” he returned, with an unseen gesture +of disgust. + +“Tell Mimosa why.” + +“Because--because--listen, Mimosa: You have always been a child of the +forest; you have been free and unfettered as a bird, and no other life +would be possible for you; that is, you could not enjoy any other. How +would you like it if some one should carry you away to a large city and +shut you up in small, close rooms, never allowing you to go out, and +where you could never get a breath of your native air, or see one of +your own people?” + +“Mimosa would die,” she said, briefly; “her heart would break.” + +“Yes, that is it. I am in a strange, wild country, my liberty is taken +from me, and my heart is breaking to go back to my friends and my +country.” + +“The paleface is a man, and the hearts of the brave do not break,” the +girl replied, with an accent of scorn. + +“Perhaps not,” he assented, with a flush at the implied weakness; “I +might not die, but I am very unhappy to be detained here against my +will.” + +Again he heard that sigh, then: + +“Ah! if only the paleface could be happy here, Mimosa would live but to +serve him, and--he should be a great chief.” + +There was a sadness and an earnestness in the sweet voice that thrilled +her listener. + +He started, as a thought flashed upon him. + +Could it be possible that this beautiful Indian girl was learning to +love him? and was that the secret of her past attentions to him and of +her wish for him to remain and become one of her people? + +He hoped that such was not the case; at all events, he resolved to nip +any such sentiment in the bud. + +“That could never be,” he said, gravely. “My heart is with my own +people, and I must go back to them. Will you help me, Mimosa?” + +Surely a sob smote his ear at this. He was not quite sure, but it was +very like it. Then the girl said, in a passionate voice: + +“When the paleface goes home, far across the sea, Mimosa--dies!” + +Her voice died away to a hoarse whisper at the last word. + +It was as he had feared, after all. The mischief was done--the Indian +maiden loved him; and for a moment he was speechless--appalled. + +“Hush!” he said, at length; “you must not say that, for by and by some +noble brave will ask to take you to his wigwam, and you will be very +happy, while I--listen now, for this is a secret which I could not +tell to every one--I must go back to England, for I love a beautiful, +golden-haired maiden there, who, I fear, is even now mourning me as +dead. Now you see why I could not remain willingly with your people, +even were not this kind of life distasteful to me. But, Mimosa, if you +will assist me to get away, so that I can go back to those I love I +shall always remember you as a kind friend.” + +He listened and waited for some reply to this, but none came. At last +he arose and looked out. There was no one there--the spot where Mimosa +had knelt to talk with him was empty; she had stolen away as quietly +as she had come, and he knew not what would be the result of his +petition to her. So, with a sigh of disappointment and something of +apprehension, he threw himself again upon his pile of robes, and was +ere long asleep. + +He scanned the faces of the warriors somewhat anxiously the next +morning as he went among them, and for several days after, but no one +appeared any different to him; he was not more closely watched, and he +began to think that if Mimosa did not mean to help him, she at least +intended to keep his desire for escape a secret. + +However, he was every day becoming more desperate, and resolved that he +would improve the first opportunity that offered for his escape--take +his life in his hand, and try to make his way to some white settlement. + +But one morning he arose with a strange feeling of lassitude upon him, +while sharp, stinging pains went shooting throughout his whole body. +His tongue was parched and dry, his head dizzy, and a fear began to +taunt him that he was going to be very ill. + +Every moment he seemed to grow worse, and before he had finished +dressing himself, he was obliged to crawl back to his bed, where a +messenger, sent to inquire into his absence from the morning meal, +found him, groaning with pain. + +The doctor was summoned, and, upon seeing his patient, gave vent to +a perfect torrent of dissatisfied grunts, and proceeded to put him +through a thorough steaming process; but it was all of no avail, for +every hour only added to poor Wil’s torments, and before night he was +unable to move, for he was bound hand and foot by the chains of that +relentless demon--rheumatism. + +It would be tedious to follow him through the long season of pain +and wretchedness, of loneliness and almost despair. The disease +seemed loath to relinquish its hold upon its victim, but his strong +constitution at length conquered, and he began slowly to mend. + +He had received the most devoted care, however, during this illness; +for when the fever had passed and his wandering mind returned to its +normal condition, he found Mimosa established beside him as his nurse, +and a very efficient one she proved, too, for every want and need were +attended to almost before he was conscious of them himself, and with a +gentleness and deftness that were very grateful to his weakened nerves. + +But she was greatly changed; she was no longer the bright, happy maiden +that she had been when she had come so shyly to bring him her flowers. + +Her cheeks had lost their roundness; her sparkling eyes had grown dull +and sunken; her form seemed to have shrunk away, all its graceful lines +had disappeared, while she had a dry, hard cough, which racked her +whole body with every paroxysm. + +But she never complained--never spoke of herself, though there was a +hopeless tenderness in her eyes which smote Wil every time she looked +at him, while she was so attractive and gentle that he began to feel a +real affection for her. + +But as his strength returned and his convalescence progressed rapidly, +she did not come so often, while she seemed to have grown suddenly weak +and spiritless herself. + +Once she was absent several days, and upon inquiring of Arrow where she +was, he replied in a tone that was almost fierce, and with a despairing +look: + +“Mimosa droops; she says the Great Spirit has called her.” + +“Surely she cannot be so ill as that!” Wil cried, greatly startled. + +The Indian bowed his head upon his breast and did not answer, but +Wil could see that his teeth had almost bitten through his lip in +his effort to restrain all feeling, while his hands were clinched so +tightly that they had become livid. + +Tears actually started to the invalid’s eyes; he could hardly believe +that the beautiful girl was fatally ill; yet he remembered how hollow +her cough had sounded the last time he saw her, and how, several times, +she had involuntarily put her hand to her side as if a sharp pain had +suddenly pierced her. + +Arrow soon recovered his composure, and then told him that Mimosa had +been out in a storm and taken a sudden cold; that during his illness +she had several slight hemorrhages, and only a day or two previous she +had been attacked with one more violent than the others, and was now +confined to her couch. + +This made Wil very sad, for he had been greatly interested in the +bright, intelligent maiden, and it seemed almost cruel that she must +die so young. + +Another week passed, and then she came again to see him, and he was +shocked at the change which the past fortnight had wrought in her, +though she did not appear nearly so sad as she had done the last time +he saw her. + +“I am sorry you have been sick, Mimosa,” he said, holding out his hand +in greeting to her. + +She laid hers for a moment within it, and it almost burned him with its +fever heat. + +“Mimosa will be better soon,” she answered, quietly, as she sat down +beside him. + +Then, fixing her dark eyes with a mournful look on his face, she asked, +significantly: + +“Can the paleface be patient a little longer?” + +Wil’s heart bounded into his throat at the question, for something told +him she had devised a way for him to escape from his captors. + +“How?--patient for what?” he asked, trying to speak calmly. + +She held up her hand between him and the sunlight that poured in +between the parted curtains of his tent, and he saw that it was almost +transparent, and trembling from weakness. + +“See!” she said, with a sad smile, “the life is almost gone; two moons +will not wax and wane before it will be cold and still. When Mimosa’s +heart ceases to beat, the paleface shall be free!” + +“Mimosa! surely you do not think you are going to die!” Wil said, +startled by her words, and in his anxiety for her heedless for the +moment of their full import. + +She smiled again, a trifle bitterly. + +“Does the paleface care?” + +“Truly I do,” he said, earnestly; “I should grieve sorely.” + +“Will he remember the poor Indian girl when he goes back to the +golden-haired squaw?” + +“Indeed I shall. I shall never forget how kind you have been to me; nor +that perhaps I owe my life to your faithful care.” + +Her lips trembled and her eyes were dazzlingly bright as she leaned +nearer to him, the hectic burning on her cheek. + +“Mimosa has loved the paleface well,” she whispered--“so well that +she will find a way to send him back to his people and the beautiful +maiden who is grieving for him. But her heart is broken; there is no +beauty in the hills or valleys any more for her--no joy in the flowers, +in the whispering boughs and running waters; she longs for the happy +hunting-grounds of the Great Spirit, who will make her well and lift +the pain from her heart.” + +Wil Hamilton sighed heavily. + +“You make me very unhappy, Mimosa,” he said, in a husky voice. “I never +intended you any wrong, my poor girl.” + +She lifted her head with a proud gesture at those last words. + +“Pomanda’s daughter can do without the paleface’s pity!” she said, +haughtily. + +Then a painful crimson swept over her wan face, and she added, sadly +and humbly: + +“I know he meant no wrong; it is only poor, foolish Mimosa who has +been wrong. There was no one among her father’s people who had power to +touch her heart, no brave to whose wigwam she was willing to go; but +when the paleface came, with a brighter light in his eyes, with wisdom +in his speech, with gracious words and gentle courtesy--so different +from the rude ways of the men of the forest, the poor Indian girl was +foolish enough to look up to him, to linger for his smile and the sound +of his voice, and to tremble when he spoke pleasant words to her. She +forgot that the eagle never mates with the sparrow, until the paleface +told her of the beautiful golden-haired squaw over the sea, and how his +heart was full of bitterness because he could not return to her. But +now he shall go back to her and his own people. Mimosa has sworn it and +she will perform her vow.” + +Wil was deeply moved as he listened to the dying girl; there was +infinite tenderness in her low, sad tones, and every word was full of a +pathos that was very touching. + +“I shall be very grateful to you, Mimosa, but I should be much happier +if you could get well and be happy yourself, after I am gone. I will +hope that you may, at all events; but will you not tell me,” he added, +anxious to change the subject, “how you learned to speak my language so +correctly?” + +The girl flushed again, and with evident pleasure, while a glow of +pride came into her eyes. + +“Three summers ago Mimosa went to visit the tribe of Pomanda’s brother, +beyond the Red River of the North, and a pale sister with a voice like +the nightingale’s and eyes like the meadow violet, came to teach the +poor red men. Mimosa’s heart was hungry to learn, she had always wanted +more than her own people could give her, and she sat often at the feet +of the pale sister who taught her the language of her fathers, and,” +hesitating and casting a furtive glance at her companion, “and about +the Great Father, and the good Christ who died for the white man, the +red man, all people. Does the paleface know Him?” + +“Yes, Mimosa, I know that Christ died for every one,” Wil answered, +with a strange tension about his heartstrings. + +“Does the paleface love Him?” she asked, with almost breathless +eagerness. + +His eyes drooped and a flush slowly mounted to his brow. He knew that +he did not love Him in the way that she meant, and he was speechless +before her. Had he come into the wilderness to be taught the truths of +the gospel by this simple girl? + +A wistful look swept over her face; then she said: + +“Mimosa will search for the paleface in the happy hunting-grounds by +and by; she hopes that he will come to them, for she loves the good +Christ, and she will not be afraid to go away to them when He calls +her; for she knows that there her heart will never be heavy any more.” + +She arose, her face all alight with hope, but it soon faded, and she +continued in a weak voice: + +“Mimosa cannot come again to look upon the paleface, for her spirit is +weary and her feet are slow; but let him not lose his courage, for, +when Mimosa’s spirit is free, he shall be free also.” + +She stooped, and, with a suddenness for which he was wholly unprepared, +pressed her burning lips to his for one instant, and then was gone. + +He never saw her again, but he often inquired for her, and was told +that she was failing and far too ill to leave her own wigwam. + +Six weeks after the last sad interview, Arrow came one morning, a +little after sunrise, to his tent, his face gray and stern, his brow +gloomy and overcast. + +“Let the paleface make ready for the trail,” he briefly commanded. + +Wil looked at him inquiringly, but his heart was beating heavily with +mingled hope and fear. + +“The Great Spirit has called the flower of Pomanda’s tribe to his happy +hunting-grounds, and she will never make glad the heart of her people +any more. But the chief, my father, made a vow that when Mimosa ceased +to breathe the paleface should be free. When the sun rose my sister was +gone, and the chains of the captive broken. Come!” + +He turned abruptly and went out of the tent, while Wil, trembling +in every limb at the glad tidings of his freedom, yet with tears of +sadness gathering in his eyes at the untimely end of the gentle Indian +girl, made haste to equip himself for a long march. + +As he passed out of his tent he found Arrow waiting for him. He made a +gesture indicating that Wil was to follow him, and immediately plunged +into a narrow path leading through the forest. + +There was not a sound about the Indian camp, an ominous stillness +seemed to hang like a pall over every wigwam, and not a person was +visible anywhere. + +As they passed a little open glade a short distance from the camp, Wil +saw a new-made grave. + +Mimosa had been buried at sunrise. + +Arrow covered his face with his blanket and moved on, but Wil, breaking +a bough from an acacia tree, moved forward and laid it reverently upon +the narrow mound; then, with a sigh of regret for the dead, but with +courage and hope once more animating both heart and body, he turned +from the place forever and followed his guide. + +For many days they marched eastward, the Indian sad and silent, for his +heart was heavy; Wil growing every hour more hopeful and eager. + +They paused upon their journey only long enough to eat their simple +meals and take needful rest, and at last, just as the sun was setting +after a glorious day, Arrow halted upon a slight rise of ground and +pointed toward a dusky vapor which was curling over the tops of some +trees not far distant. + +“There the paleface will find friends,” he said, briefly. + +“Is there a white settlement there?” Wil asked. + +The Indian nodded assent. + +Joy shone in Wil Hamilton’s eyes, and he trembled visibly. + +It was very sweet, after the long, weary months of his captivity, to +find himself so near to civilization and friends again. + +“You will come with me and rest a while, before you resume your long +march back, will you not?” he begged of Arrow, for he had grown thin +and pale during their trying journey, eating but very little, and +looking so sad that Wil’s heart ached for him. + +The Indian’s lips grew tremulous, in spite of his forced stoicism, at +the words of sympathy. + +“The heart of Arrow is heavy,” he said, sadly; “he will not rest until +he comes again to the bed where Mimosa sleeps.” + +“But it is a long distance; you will be ill if you do not take proper +rest and food,” Wil returned. + +His companion merely shrugged his shoulders in reply and folded his +blanket more closely about him, as if impatient to be gone, and Wil saw +that it would be useless to urge him, so all that remained for him to +do was to take his leave of him. + +“I thank you, Arrow,” he said, “for your guidance during our hard +journey, and I shall always remember your kindness to me. Of course, it +has not been pleasant to be detained against my will among your people, +but, perhaps, that was no fault of yours.” + +Again Arrow shrugged his shoulders. + +“Pomanda knew that this daughter loved the paleface, and he hoped to +make a great warrior of him, that she might live and be happy,” he +answered. + +“Was that the reason you have kept me so long?” Wil cried. + +“Not at first,” Arrow answered; “Pomanda loves the gleam of yellow +gold, and he hoped to get it by keeping the paleface; but when that +hope was dead, he began to see that Mimosa’s face shone when the white +man was near, and grew sad when he was away; then he said: ‘The child +of a great chief must be happy; we will make a brave of the paleface +and he shall take her to his wigwam, for she shall not droop and fade +like a flower before the hoar frost.’ But Mimosa’s face grew white, her +spirit faint; the Great Spirit had whispered to her; she commanded that +the paleface be set free, and--the dying never sue in vain.” + +Wil was deeply moved, but the day was fast waning, and he was anxious +to reach the settlement before night, and he knew he must hasten. + +He took his purse from his pocket; there was considerable coin, both +gold and silver, in it, and held it out to his companion. + +“Take this to Pomanda,” he said; “there is gold in it, enough, I hope, +to make him feel that I am not ungrateful.” + +But Arrow’s eyes lighted with a sudden flash. + +“Pomanda shall not have the white man’s gold,” he said, proudly; “he +whom Mimosa loved shall not pay for the care her people gave him.” + +“Then take this for yourself, Arrow,” Wil exclaimed, with an unsteady +lip, while he drew a heavy gold ring from his finger, “and keep it as a +token of my gratitude to you and your sister for all your kindness to +me.” + +The Indian did not refuse, and allowed Wil to put it upon his finger, +then drawing a small pouch from beneath his blanket, he thrust it +hastily into the young man’s hand, turned quickly away, dashed into the +woods and disappeared from sight. + +Opening the pouch, Wil discovered, to his amazement, gems of various +kinds. + +They were all in the rough, of course, but he knew enough of their +formation to perceive that they bade fair to be of great value. + +But there was no time to examine them closely, and, concealing them +about his person, he set off at a brisk pace toward the settlement +which Arrow had pointed out to him. + +He found it without difficulty, and it proved to be merely a rude +Western village; but he succeeded in obtaining a night’s lodging, and +the next morning, procuring a conveyance, proceeded to the nearest +railway station, which was many miles distant, whence he started at +once for New York. + +Arriving there he secured a passage upon the first steamer bound for +England, and ere long was plowing the seas toward his native land, as +fast as steam and sail could take him. + + + + +CHAPTER XLVIII. + +CAN IT BE TRUE? + + +We left Arley, after her meeting with Wil before the druggist’s store, +in Lady Elaine’s boudoir, whither she had been led by the gentle girl, +agitated and almost unnerved in view of the astonishing news which she +was about to communicate. + +But with a resolute effort of her will, she suddenly rallied her +sinking heart and bent herself to her task. + +She would not allow Elaine to wait upon her, even though she appeared +anxious to do so. + +“I am perfectly able to take care of myself,” she said, gayly, as she +threw aside her wraps and took off her hat; “you must not make yourself +too useful to me, for you know I do not expect I can have you all +the time, now that my liege lord has claimed me. But, dear, I have a +particular request to make of you to-night.” + +“A request,” Lady Elaine repeated, smiling, and relieved to see Arley’s +color coming back, “surely you would ask nothing amiss, and I may +safely promise to grant it even before I know what it is.” + +“That is a dear--now mind, you have promised, and I shall not allow you +to retreat,” Arley returned, archly. + +“Well, I met a very dear friend, a gentleman, to-day, and he said that +he should call at Mordaunt House to-night----” + +“Philip?” interrupted Lady Elaine, with a merry glance at Arley’s +cheeks, which were fast becoming crimson with excitement. + +“I am not going to tell you who just yet,” Arley answered, with a wise +look; “but I want you to let me turn dressing-maid just for once, and +to array you as I like, then I will go and put on something bright and +pretty to keep you company.” + +Lady Elaine grew pale, and a quiver ran through her whole body. + +“Arley,” she cried, in a voice of pain, “you are asking something very +hard of me, for--I have worn nothing but this,” with a pathetic glance +down at the black dress, “since--since----” + +“Yes, darling, I know; ever since those dreadful tidings of Wil came to +you,” Arley said, tenderly. “But,” she continued, “do you suppose he +would like to see you in such sombre robes all the time?” + +“No,” was the low reply, made with tremulous lips, “but----” + +Arley would not allow her to go on. + +“Neither do I, and as I am going to assume gay attire to-night, in +honor of our visitor, I ask, as an especial favor, that you will do the +same.” + +“But will it not appear very strange?” objected Lady Elaine, regarding +Arley wonderingly. + +“You will not think so when you know who is coming; and never mind if +it does just for once, and it will please me so much. Do you remember +the ball at Hazelmere, and have you the dress that you wore then?” + +“Yes.” + +“Where is it?” + +“In a trunk in my wardrobe; but, Arley, I cannot wear that,” Lady +Elaine said, looking like a statue of snow, for the thought of it +brought a flood of tender memories surging over her. + +“Please, dear,” Arley pleaded, earnestly, “I would not be cruel or +wound you for the world, but I feel as if I must see you in it just +once more--I will never ask you again to do anything of this kind, only +grant me my request to-night.” + +Lady Elaine sighed, but she made no further objection, for she was +always ready to sacrifice her own feelings for the sake of others. She +thought it a strange caprice of Arley’s, but she imagined that Philip +must be the visitor whom she expected, and that in her joy at his +home-coming she wished everybody to be gay. + +Without further words Arley found and brought the lovely dress, and, +with nervous fingers, helped her sister to put it on. Then she brought +some soft, creamy lace from her own treasures and arranged it just as +she remembered she had worn it about her neck at Hazelmere. She brought +a cluster of small, pure lilies to fasten at her throat, when Lady +Elaine started, and put them from her with a bitter sob. + +“Lilies!” she cried, sharply; “Wil’s own flowers, which you know are so +sacred to me! Surely, Arley, this is not kind.” + +Arley bent and kissed her with trembling lips--her task was growing +harder every moment; but Wil must not see her in black. + +“Dear,” she whispered, “would it not be a joy to you to dress thus +for him, if you could only imagine for once that you are dressing for +Wil----” + +“How could that be possible when I know he is dead; how can you have +the heart to ask me to imagine anything like that?” she cried, in a +voice of agony. + +“I know that they wrote that he was dead,” Arley returned, with +brilliant eyes, “but, you know, they never found him; and I have +sometimes thought that there was a possibility that they were mistaken, +after all.” + +“Oh, Arley! what strange spirit possesses you to-night? Are you so +happy in the prospect of Philip’s arrival that you forget how bruised, +and sore and desolate my poor heart is?” Lady Elaine cried, with +something of passion in her voice. + +“It is not like you,” she went on, reproachfully. “I know that they +never found his body,” and an icy chill seemed to seize her here as she +remembered how they had explained that; “but, do you suppose, if he had +been living, he would have remained away from me so long, without one +word to relieve my suspense?” + +“Not if he could have helped it, dear,” said Arley, gently. + +“What would have hindered him?” + +“I can imagine several things.” + +“Such as what?” + +“He might have been ill.” + +“He would have written then; illness might have kept him from me, but +it would never have kept him silent so long,” muttered Lady Elaine, +with unwavering faith. + +“No, it would not if he could have got a letter to you, but I can +imagine circumstances which might render that impossible. I can +imagine--shall I tell you what?” Arley asked, with a strangely earnest +face. + +“Yes, tell me if you wish; but get through with your freak as soon as +possible for my sake; you are in a very unaccountable mood to-night, +Arley,” was the weary reply. + +Arley began, determined now to finish her story. + +“Well, then, I can imagine that when Wil fell over that horrible +precipice, he might not have been killed--that a tree or something +might have broken his fall, and that instead of being dragged by some +wild beast to his lair, some Indians--for we have read that portions of +the United States are still inhabited by Indians--might have seen him +fall, and, picking him up in their stealthy way, carried him away to +their camp, where he might have been retained as a captive, in the hope +of securing a reward or ransom for him----” + +“Arley, Arley!” the sweet voice rang out very sharply. “You have heard +something--you are trying to prepare me for something----” + +She gasped for breath and could not go on, for the suddenness of the +thought almost paralyzed her. + +Arley gathered her close in her trembling arms, drew the golden head +down upon her bosom, and, with her lips against her cheek, whispered: + +“And if I were, could you bear it? Could you bear to have me tell you +that good news has come to us from over the sea to-night and that some +one is coming here to tell us all about it, and--and---- + +“Arley,” Lady Elaine said, a strange calm settling upon her, and +lifting her white face to look at her sister. “You are going to tell me +that Wil himself is here! That is why you have dressed me as you knew +he would like to see me; that is why you wanted to put those lilies on +my breast.” + +“And if it were all true, could you bear it?” Arley interrupted, with +shining eyes, yet trembling like a leaf; and the beautiful “Lily of +Mordaunt” knew that it was true. + +Without a word she fell back in her sister’s arms, limp and white, and +Arley was dismayed. + +She put out her hand toward the bellrope to summon aid, but Lady Elaine +stopped her with a gesture. + +“I shall not faint,” she whispered. “I shall be stronger soon, but, oh! +tell me, can it be true?” + +“That Wil was not killed; that he had a dreadful fall, but a blessed +tree saved him; that Indians, instead of a wild beast, picked him up, +bruised and broken, and carried him far away into the wilderness, where +they have held him as a captive ever since? Yes, dear, it is all true, +only I cannot stop to tell you half, for he is waiting to do that. But +I am so glad that I was chosen to bring you these blessed tidings, for +you have given me back so much of happiness, and I am nearly wild with +joy to think that the shadows are about to be lifted from your life.” + +“Wil here! my own noble-hearted Wil, safe, and waiting to see me! Oh, +Arley, I feel almost as if earth and sense were slipping away from me! +Hold me close, dear; let me feel your arms clasped tight about me, to +assure me that it is not a vision of my imagination. Oh, thank Heaven!” + +The gentle girl was utterly helpless for the time being; she could +not move, she could scarcely think; yet she was conscious of the one +transporting fact that her dear one was not dead, that he lived and +loved her still, that he had returned, and was even then waiting to +clasp her to his fond heart once more. + +Arley was very much disturbed by her helplessness, and, laying her +gently down upon the couch where they had been sitting, she brought a +flask of eau de cologne and bathed her face and hands, after which she +went for a glass of wine, and made her drink it. + +This treatment seemed to have the desired effect, for Lady Elaine began +immediately to recover her dormant energies. A realizing sense of the +great joy that had come to her began to assert itself; impatience to +see the returned loved one seized her; the pathetic look which had +overwhelmed her beautiful face began to fade away; the light of a great +happiness came back to her eyes, and her lips, though still tremulous, +regained something of their usual brightness. + +“I am better,” she said, sitting up; but she seized the flask of +cologne which Arley still held, and, drenching her handkerchief, bathed +her face and head, and eagerly inhaled its pleasant perfume; but she +was still trembling in every limb. + +“I am afraid that I have told you too suddenly,” Arley said, regarding +her anxiously. “I know I made a bungle of it, and it was the hardest +thing I ever did in my life; but Wil is waiting, and I was so eager for +you to know. Darling, now you will forgive me for being so cruel as to +ask you to dress so gayly; but I could not bear that Wil should see you +in mourning for him.” + +Lady Elaine caught her about the neck and gave her a little hug; then +she laughed aloud--such a happy, though somewhat nervous laugh, as had +not escaped her lips for many a long month. + +“Bring me a glass, please,” she said, a beautiful color coming into her +cheeks, “for I cannot trust to even your perfect taste now; no, indeed, +I would not have had him see me in those dismal robes for anything. +Ah!” she continued, looking into the hand-mirror which Arley had +brought her. “I cannot improve upon your work, and I might have known +it, for your taste is faultless.” + +“My taste faultless?” Arley cried, gayly. “I have but made you look as +nearly as possible like the ‘Lily of Mordaunt,’ who was the cynosure of +all eyes at the ball at Hazelmere. Now, dear,” she added, more gently, +“are you ready? Shall I go and bring Wil here to you, and then go to +break the news to Sir Anthony and Lady Hamilton?” + +“Yes; but--oh, Arley, can it be true?” Lady Elaine cried, brokenly, +growing white again as the lilies upon her bosom. + +“You must be calm or I shall not go for him,” Arley returned, almost +sternly; “and just think of the suspense that he is enduring all this +time.” + +“True,” was the more composed response; “I was selfish not to think of +that myself.” + +Arley bent to kiss her sister, and then went to call the waiting lover. + +Swiftly along the corridor, she ran down a side staircase to an +entrance facing the stables. + +Here she rang the coachmen’s bell, and then, opening the door, stood +waiting for Wil. + +Presently she saw him coming, but he staggered almost like a man +intoxicated. He was deathly pale, and she saw that he was almost as +unnerved as Lady Elaine had been in prospect of this reunion. + +“Stop!” she said, firmly, as he would have rushed past her without even +asking where he should find his loved one. “You must not go to her like +this--it has been a fearful shock to her already, and if you are not +calm she will be ill.” + +“I know, but I thought you would never come,” Wil answered, putting his +hand to his head in a dazed way; “and I can hardly believe that I am +home after all--I am almost afraid that I am asleep and dreaming, and +shall wake up to find myself in that wretched wigwam in that Western +wilderness. But I will not be so weak,” he added, straightening himself +resolutely; and Arley turned without another word and noiselessly led +him up the stairs and toward her sister’s boudoir. + +She softly turned the silver handle and opened the door, and there, +standing in the middle of the floor in an eager, listening attitude, +her scarlet lips parted, her blue eyes shining like stars, her spotless +dress trailing about her, and the lilies on her breast quivering with +every pulsation of her heart, was the loveliest vision that she had +ever seen. + +Pushing Wil gently within the room, she closed the door, the happy +tears raining over her face and her heart full of wondrous joy. + +She went to her own room, and, while dressing herself in festal robes +for this glad occasion, gathered something of more composure, and then +went to break the news to Sir Anthony and Lady Hamilton, which she +succeeded in doing with less excitement and abruptness than when she +had told her sister. + +Who can describe the joy that reigned at Mordaunt House that night? No +one could do justice to it, for the reunion was one of those blessed +and perfect events which weak words are far too feeble to portray +effectually. + +When all had grown somewhat composed after the exciting meeting, Sir +Anthony, in a broken and trembling voice, said: + +“My boy, you know I used to say that I did not believe in a God--a +personal being, who loved and cared for human beings as His children. +I said and believed, or at least tried to satisfy myself that I +believed, that the laws of nature were all the God there was, and that +religion and the worship of a Supreme Being was but a mere sentiment. +But the life of this dear girl,” taking the hand of Lady Elaine, who +was sitting beside him, “during the past year, and now your wonderful +preservation, with all the attending circumstances, and your return +to us, have convinced me to the contrary. Henceforth,” he continued, +reverently, “I shall confess my belief and trust in an All-Wise Ruler, +and my future shall be spent in His service, to prove my gratitude for +this supreme hour of my life.” + +Lady Elaine lifted his trembling hand to her lips. + +“Dear Sir Anthony,” she said, while grateful tears stood in her lovely +eyes, for he had often grieved and wounded her by this skepticism, +“this is the crowning joy of all!” + + + + +CHAPTER XLIX. + +LADY PAXTON. + + +Before Arley slept that glad night, she wrote a full account of what +had transpired to Philip, and begged him to return to her just as soon +as possible. + +“We are all so happy that we want you here to share it with us,” she +said, “and when you do come, the reunion will be complete--perfect.” + +A few days brought a reply, as fond and tender as the most exacting +heart could wish; but Philip said he could not return just yet. He +hoped it would not take him much longer to complete his business. He +supposed he could run up to London for a few hours, but that it would +be better for him to remain until he had settled everything to his mind. + +Arley, though disappointed, strove to be content and to make the best +of it. She was so sure of her happiness and his truth, that she could +afford to be patient for a little longer, she thought. + +Annie Vane and her husband were telegraphed for at the earliest +possible hour the next morning after Wil’s return, and not many hours +elapsed before they were on to the spot to greet him. + +Miss McAllister and Ina were also sent for to come and rejoice with +the happy household; and it did not seem as if there could be a more +blessed family on earth than that which gathered around the hospitable +board in Mordaunt House upon that day. + +Lady Hamilton sat by the hour and feasted her eyes upon the face of her +idolized son. Sir Anthony got up a dozen times during the day to go and +take him by the hand. + +“I cannot feel quite sure, even yet, that it is true, unless I touch +you, to assure myself that you are really flesh and blood,” he would +say, tremulously, and as if to apologize for the act. + +Lady Elaine was content to simply sit by her lover’s side, where she +could look at him and listen to his voice; but her face was once more +the radiant face of the Lily of Mordaunt. + +Arley, growing every moment more buoyant and like the bright girl +that she was when we first knew her, flitted about like a lightsome +fairy, performing little offices of love for the dear ones about her, +and attending to the comfort of the family generally, for no one else +seemed capable of doing it, so absorbed were they in the returned +wanderer; while Eddie Winthrope followed her from room to room, feeling +almost as if she was an odd one and left out in the cold, and he wished +to make it up to her by showing her all the attention in his power. + +Once, when they were passing through the hall together, Arley put her +arm about his shoulders and gave him an ecstatic hug. + +“Isn’t it beautiful, Eddie, to have everybody so happy once more? And +when Uncle Philip comes----” + +A soft kiss dropped from tremulous lips upon his forehead told him +better than words could have done what that coming would be to her. + +“Yes,” he assented, with a little sigh, half of content, half of +sadness, as he thought of those two lonely graves in the distant +churchyard; “it seems almost like heaven.” + +“But,” he added, with a flush and a fond glance up into her face, “I +never thought anybody could grow so lovely as you do.” + +“Thank you, little flatterer,” she returned, laughing; “it is all +because I am so happy. Happiness is a great beautifier, it is said. +But, Eddie,” she asked, suddenly, “how is that invalid limb?” + +“Oh, it is ever so much better; there is no soreness at all now. That +last wash that the surgeon gave me has done it a great deal of good.” + +“I was thinking,” Arley said, speaking very tenderly, for the boy was +exceedingly sensitive about his lameness, “that I would like to take +you to Monsieur Roulins and have that new foot fitted to you, so that +you can get used to it a little before Uncle Philip comes, and give him +a pleasant surprise. Besides, there is to be a grand wedding very soon, +to which we are invited, and I shall want my boy to make as fine an +appearance as possible.” + +The boy wound his arm about her waist with an impulsive movement. + +“How good you were to say that I might always stay with you and Uncle +Philip--how I love you!” he said, earnestly. + +“Why, Eddie!” Arley cried, deeply touched by this manifestation of +feeling, “it wasn’t because I was ‘good’ at all, I shall even have to +confess to being a little selfish about it, I wanted you, for I began +to love you that day when I first met you in the art gallery. But +come, I want you to go to the conservatory with me, to help me cut and +arrange some flowers--we must deck the whole house to-day in honor of +our guest, and then, by and by, we will steal away for an hour or so, +and go to see Monsieur Roulins.” + + * * * * * + +Ina Wentworth’s wedding day drew near, and when Wil heard of it, +and that Lady Elaine, Arley, and Annie had been chosen to act as +bridesmaids--for Ina said she would have only those whom she loved +about her, when she took her marriage vows upon her--he declared that +if Sir Charles and his fair bride-elect did not object, they would make +a double wedding of it, for he did not intend to stand upon ceremony, +but claimed his wife at once. + +All seemed to be pleased with this arrangement; even Lady Elaine did +not demur, though it gave her very little time, and so it was decided +that there should be two brides instead of one upon the ninth of +December, the day set for the ceremony. + +Philip was notified of this decision, and wrote that he thought he +should be able to get through with his business so as to return the day +before the wedding, and though Arley was growing very impatient, she +was still very happy, and so busy and interested in the happiness of +others around her, that the days slipped very quickly by. + +Eddie was provided with his new foot, and found that he was not nearly +so awkward with it as he had expected to be at first. Arley was greatly +astonished and no less delighted, when, on the day that they went by +appointment to get it, he walked a little way down Oxford street with +her and scarcely limped. + +She had an errand at her lawyer’s office--which was only a short +distance from Monsieur Roulins’ rooms--which was no other than to +commission the good man to settle an annuity of a hundred pounds upon +good Jane Collins, and Captain Bancroft’s destitute widow. + +Lady Elaine had already made the same provision for them, and thus +those humble, but whole-hearted people, were made comfortable for the +remainder of their lives. + +The day before the double wedding--the day set for Philip’s +return--arrived, and all through its long hours Arley watched for her +husband with almost feverish impatience and anxiety. + +But he did not come. + +Late in the afternoon there came a telegram to her, saying that, to +his great disappointment, he had missed his train, but he would surely +be with her early in the morning. + +This was a great and unforeseen trial to the young wife, and for a +while made her sad and depressed. + +“It is too bad, Aunt Arley; I am so sorry,” Eddie said, glancing +ruefully at her overcast face, and slipping his hand within hers to +show his sympathy. + +She heaved a deep sigh; then she turned to him with a smile. + +“I was so sure that he would come that it seemed very hard to get +this,” she said, touching the telegram; “but I will try not to cloud +the happiness of any one else, and the few hours that must intervene +will soon slip away.” + +“I will imagine,” she said to herself, “that to-morrow will be my +own--my real wedding day, also, and that Philip will then come to claim +his bride,” and she exerted herself all the evening to make everything +bright and pleasant for those around her. + +Just as the family were about to separate for the night Arley and Lady +Elaine were standing together with their arms twined about each other, +and Sir Anthony went up to them and laid a hand upon the shoulder of +each. + +“The ‘Lily’ and the ‘Rose’ of Mordaunt,” he said, smiling fondly upon +them, “two of the sweetest flowers that ever bloomed in this world of +ours; Heaven bless you both! I love you both almost as if you were my +own daughters.” + +Morning came--a beautiful, cloudless morning--a perfect day such as +gloomy London rarely knew; and there were sweet voices, radiant faces, +and busy hands and feet in Mordaunt House. + +At nine o’clock a carriage drove rapidly down the street, stopped +before the door, and Philip Paxton, strong, well, and never handsomer, +sprang lightly to the ground. + +A figure that moment suddenly disappeared from the window above the +hall, and when he entered the vestibule below, a lovely vision came +gliding down the stairs to greet him. + +It was Arley, in a dainty white wrapper, with simply a bunch of roses +in her belt. + +Philip’s heart gave a great bound at the sight of her, and his eyes +were as tender as a lover’s as he bent to look into hers. + +“My darling!” he said, gathering her close in his arms, “at last I +have you; we will never be separated again while we live; and you are +wearing the roses that I love best in the world! Do you know why I love +them?” he asked, touching them tenderly. + +“Perhaps for the very same reason that I wear them,” Arley answered, +with shining eyes, as she laid her soft cheek against his and nestled +closer to him. + +“What is that?” he asked. + +“Once, when we were at Hazelmere, I gave you a crimson rose, and you +called me the ‘Rose of Wentworth.’ Do you remember?” + +“Yes,” he answered, “and I never see a crimson rose without thinking of +it, and I have always loved it, because these dear hands fastened one +above my heart that evening. But,” he added, with a glad light in his +eyes, “I shall give you a new name to-day.” + +Arley looked up with smiling inquiry. + +“Wait,” he said, “until after the wedding, and then I will tell you +what it is; but, whatever it may be, to me you will ever be the +brightest and sweetest rose that blooms.” + +“And I have a little secret for you also, when all this confusion is +over,” Arley replied, archly. “But come and have your breakfast. I +ordered it prepared for you, for I was sure that you would be here +about this time. I will pour your coffee with my own hands, and then I +must run away to dress. I ought not to have waited until now.” + +“Why did you, dear?” Philip asked, with mock gravity. + +“Because, you know,” she returned, with a shy glance and a bewitching +blush, “I did not think it would quite do to have all my bridal finery +crushed by such a ruthless pair of arms.” + +Philip laughed such a glad, hearty laugh, and folded her still closer +in his fond embrace. + +At eleven o’clock the aristocratic bridal party from Mordaunt House +passed, with “stately step and slow,” up to the altar of St. George’s +Church, Hanover square. + +Annie Vane and her husband led the train, and took their station at the +right. Philip and Arley came next, and passed to the left, while the +two brides arrayed themselves in front. + +A brilliant throng had assembled to witness this double marriage, with +which so much of interest and romance was connected, and it was really +an occasion long to be remembered. + +The two maidens about to plight their troth wore the conventional +white satin, with exquisite veils of rare old point--one the gift of +Lady Hamilton, the other of Lady Herbert--and fairer brides the “sun +ne’er shone on.” The ever-appropriate orange blossoms graced fair Ina +Wentworth, but Lady Elaine wore nothing but white lilies upon her bosom +and gracefully drooping among the folds of her veil. + +It was Arley’s idea; and Wil, when he saw his gentle bride-elect come +forth from her hands, thanked her with shining eyes. + +Annie Vane’s dress was of corded silk--a very delicate shade of pink, +the effect of which was enhanced by an exquisite set of diamonds, her +father’s gift to her upon her own marriage--while she carried in her +hands a basket of pink and white azaleas. + +Arley was especially lovely in cream-white silk, with rich crimson +roses at her throat and in her belt, and a basket of beautiful blush +roses in her hand. + +When the rector came forward in his robes to perform the ceremony, +requesting the parties to join their right hands, Philip quietly +reached down and took Arley’s in a strong, yet tender clasp; and when +Wil and Sir Charles repeated the solemn marriage service, she saw his +lips moving also, and knew, with a quick heart throb, that he was +renewing his own vows, while the solemn look upon his face told her +that never again, while life should last, would he swerve from his +allegiance to her. + +She felt doubly sure of it when, after they had entered their carriage, +its curtains drawn close, to return to Mordaunt House, he drew her +again into his arms, and murmured: + +“My darling, I feel as if to-day were our real wedding day.” + +And then she told him how the same thought had come to her the night +before, when she had received his telegram. + +“It was the handsomest bridal party that I ever saw,” the Duchess of +Bladesboro said to Sir Charles’ mother, when, after the grand breakfast +was over, she went to congratulate her upon the acquisition of so sweet +a daughter; and many of the other guests were heard to echo the same +sentiment. + +When at last it was all over, and the happy couples had departed upon +their journey, Philip led Arley away to the little room over the hall, +where he had seen her when he alighted from his carriage that morning. + +“I want you to myself for a little while,” he said; “and,” he added, “I +told you that I should give you a new name to-day--shall I tell you now +what it is?” + +“If you wish, Philip,” she answered, thinking it was perhaps some +foolish pet name that he had thought of. + +“Well, then, you are no longer simple Arley Paxton, wife of a humble +barrister; henceforth you will be known as Lady Paxton, Baroness of +Elmsford.” + +“What do you mean?” she asked, with wonder-wide eyes. + +And then he told her of the death of his three cousins and his aunt, +and that he was thus left the only heir of the large estate of his +uncle, with an income which would enable them to live about as they +liked during the remainder of their life. + +He said that he should give up his business in the city to his clerk, +for his estate would be all the care he should wish for, and thus +they could reside in the country during all the pleasantest portion +of the year. He told her that he had been to Elmsford during all the +past weeks, attending to having the house and grounds put in thorough +repair, and having some refurnishing done which he thought a certain +dark-eyed lady would like--this had been the “business” which had +required his immediate attention upon leaving the hospital. + +“Now I have confessed, and will proceed to take your deposition--you +said you had one to make,” he concluded, smiling. + +“Yes, Philip,” Arley said, regarding him earnestly. “It is the secret +of my birth.” + +He gave her a startled look. + +“You have discovered--you have learned who you are?” he said, +astonished. + +“Yes, and”--growing a trifle pale, while she watched him closely, for +she meant to test him a little further--“could you bear to learn that, +though I have been educated to fill a high position, and perhaps am +fitted to fill one, that my parentage was not such as would entitle me +to it?” + +He never hesitated an instant, but drew her close to his heart. + +“My darling!” he said, and there was a note of passion in his voice; +“every one has a sort of pride in his or her antecedents, but I believe +I should rejoice to learn that you were of the humblest origin, so that +I might prove to you how I love my wife, and how proud I am to give her +a position which she is so worthy to fill. Dearest, I do not care who +you are, or to whom you owe your being, since I have won what I most +care for--your love and trust.” + +She lifted her head from his breast and stood proudly before him then. +She was almost regal in her beauty. + +“Philip! Philip!” she cried, and there was an exultant ring in her +sweet tones, “I am Lady Alice Warburton, eldest daughter of the Duke of +Mordaunt, and Elaine is my own sister; but, oh! I am far more proud to +be the wife of Philip Paxton, and to know that he loves me for myself, +than I am of my noble birth!” + +He did not speak for a full minute. Her tidings had amazed him, +stricken him dumb, and, if the truth had been known, he was more sorry +than glad to learn of her exalted station in life. + +“How can that be possible?” he asked at last, in a very grave tone. + +Of course, the story had to be all told over to him, but we know it, +and will not linger upon it. + +“How wonderful it all is!” he said, when she had related everything; +“and,” with a blush of shame mantling his cheek, “how I schemed and +plotted for the Mordaunt fortune! I made gold my idol, and lost +everything--sacrificing even my good name and self-respect to achieve +my ignoble purpose. But when I came to my senses and realized my sin, +how strangely I have been dealt with! I have not only regained your +love, the most precious of all things to me now, but fate has seemed +to hurl me into the very lap of luxury and heap honors upon me. How I +bless that sweet sister of yours for the rough kindness, which, like a +mirror, reflected my moral deformity and vileness, and led me to draw +back from the precipice over which I was about to plunge, and recover +the honor and manhood which I had so nearly lost. My beloved, how much +we both owe to the lovely ‘Lily of Mordaunt!’” + + +THE END. + + + + +THE MOST POPULAR AMERICAN NOVELIST + +Mrs. Georgie Sheldon + +_Writes exclusively for Street & Smith._ + + +Her stories are among the leading attractions of the famous =EAGLE +SERIES=. The following is a complete list of this favorite author’s +works now published at =Ten Cents= by Street & Smith, who are the sole +authorized publishers of her latest works, and the only house issuing +her complete list of novels. + + +List of Titles. + + Audrey’s Recompense Eagle, No. 99, 10c. + Dorothy Arnold’s Escape ” No. 188, ” + Dorothy’s Jewels ” No. 144, ” + Edrie’s Legacy ” No. 12, ” + Faithful Shirley ” No. 111, ” + Geoffrey’s Victory ” No. 199, ” + Grazia’s Mistake ” No. 122, ” + Lost, A Pearle ” No. 219, ” + Masked Bridal, The ” No. 166, ” + Max ” No. 133, ” + Nameless Dell ” No. 155, ” + Queen Bess ” No. 1, ” + Ruby’s Reward ” No. 2, ” + That Dowdy ” No. 44, ” + Thrice Wedded ” No. 55, ” + Tina ” No. 77, ” + True Aristocrat, A ” No. 177, ” + Two Keys ” No. 7, ” + Virgie’s Inheritance ” No. 88, ” + Wild Oats ” No. 210, ” + Witch Hazel ” No. 66, ” + + +Street & Smith, Publishers, New York. + + + + + EAGLE SERIES NO. 222 + + A weekly publication devoted to good literature. + By subscription $5 per year. May 27, 1901. + Entered as second-class matter at N. Y. post-office. + + +Ainslee’s Magazine _Awarded_ GRAND PRIZE _at the_ Paris Exposition + + United States Commission + to the + Paris Exposition + of 1900 + + =PARIS + 20 AVENUE RAPP= + + _Aug. 31, 1900._ + + AINSLEE’S MAGAZINE, + _STREET & SMITH_, + New York City, U. S. A. + + I have the honor to inform you that, in accordance with the official + announcement of awards at the Paris Exposition of 1900, * * * you are + entitled to the award of Grand Prize. + + _A. S. CAPEHART, + Director of Liberal Arts and Chemical Industries._ + + +Ainslee’s is the only 10-cent magazine in the _Gold Medal Class_. +This splendid compliment speaks volumes for the literary and artistic +excellence of the magazine. + + +STREET & SMITH, _Publishers_, New York + + + + +Transcriber’s Notes: + + +This novel was serialized in _Street and Smith’s New York Weekly_ from +June 9, 1884 to December 8, 1884. This book edition differs from the +serial in some minor ways, most notably that the original chapters XXXV +and XXXVI have been combined and condensed into a single chapter. + +Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. + +Table of contents has been added and placed into the public domain by +the transcriber. + +The name “Corrillion” was frequently spelled “Corrillon” in the book +edition. The spelling has been normalized to match the original serial +appearance of the novel. + +Inconsistent hyphenation (e.g. heartbroken vs. heart-broken) has been +retained from the original. + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78682 *** |