CHAPTER XXVII
A fortunate chance revealed to Seth Dumbrick the knowledge of the Duchess's flight many hours before she intended him to become acquainted with it. Both he and Sally had observed a strange and unaccountable excitement in the Duchess's manner, and had spoken of it in confidence to each other. She had been absent twice during the day, and when on the second occasion she returned, her restlessness was so marked that it communicated itself to her friends. It was not without fear, nor without some sense of the ingratitude of the act, that the Duchess prepared secretly for flight, and more than once her courage almost failed her; but she fortified herself with the reflection that she could return at the last moment if she wished, and that she had time before her to retract.
She had no real love for Ned Chester. She liked him, and had been led away by his attentions and flatteries, by the handsome presents he had given her, and by the belief that he was rich and a gentleman. All the sentiment that the future contained for her was that she would be able to live like a lady. In all other respects the page was blank, and her history would be written from experiences to come.
Early in the afternoon there was a heavy fall of snow, which, from appearance, bid fair to continue through the night. In the midst of the storm, the Duchess stole away from Rosemary Lane.
Within half a mile from home she entered a cab, as she believed unobserved. But Sally, who was at that moment returning from the establishment which supplied her with needlework, saw the Duchess's face, as the cab drove swiftly off. The truth flashed upon her instantly; the Duchess had gone away from them for ever. Wringing her hands in despair, she ran after the cab, but it was soon out of sight, and seeing the hopelessness of pursuit she retraced her steps, and ran swiftly to Rosemary Lane to acquaint Seth Dumbrick with the circumstance.
Mention has frequently been made of Mrs. Preedy. To this woman the Duchess had entrusted a letter accompanied with a bribe, and the instruction that it was not to be delivered to Seth until the following morning. In the course of the few anxious minutes which Seth (after hearing what Sally had to tell him) devoted to the endeavour to discover a clue in Rosemary Lane, he came across Mrs. Preedy. It needed no great shrewdness on his part to suspect, from the woman's important manner, that she had something to impart, and with a small exercise of cunning he extracted the letter from her.
The mere receipt of it filled him with alarm. He hurried to his cellar, with Sally at his heels.
"I wouldn't open it before the neighbours," he said to Sally, "for the Duchess's sake. They're only too ready to talk, and take away a girl's character."
With this he opened the letter. The words were few:
"I have gone away, and perhaps shall never come back. I will try and pay you and Sally for all your kindness to me. Don't blame me; I cannot help what I am doing. When you see me again, I shall be a lady. Goodbye."
They looked at each other with white faces.
"It has come," said Seth, in a pathetic voice, "What we dreaded has come. Our child has deserted us. God send that she is not being deceived; but I fear-I fear!" He paced the cellar for some moments in anxious thought, and Sally, with all her soul in her eyes, followed his movements. Presently he straightened himself with the air of a man who has a serious task before him. "I am going straight to my duty," he said. "Kiss me, my dear. Whatever a man can do, I intend to do, without fear of consequences."
"Let me go with you, Daddy," implored Sally.
"Come along, then; it will be as well, perhaps."
No further words passed between them, and as quickly as it could be accomplished, the shutters were put up to Seth's stall, and he and Sally were riding to Mr. Temple's house. On his arrival there Seth demanded to see Mr. Temple.
The servant conveyed the message to Mr. Temple, coupling it with the information that the visitor was the person who had lately been turned from the house by Mr. Temple's orders. Mr. Temple ordered the servant again to expel him; but the man returned, saying that Seth Dumbrick declared he must have an interview, and promised that he would not detain Mr. Temple. The secret of this lay in the servant having been bribed by Seth.
"The person is not alone, sir," said the servant; "he has a woman with him."
"Let him come in," said Mr. Temple; "and you yourself will remain within call."
"Now," said Mr. Temple haughtily, the moment Seth and Sally entered, "without a word of preamble, the reason of this intrusion. You are, perhaps, aware that I could have you locked up for forcing your way into my house."
"In that case," said Seth firmly, "I should be compelled, in the magistrate's court to make certain matters public. The press is open to a man's wrongs."
"Clap-trap," exclaimed Mr. Temple. "Come at once to your business with me."
Seth handed to Mr. Temple the note left by the Duchess with Mrs. Preedy. Mr. Temple read it in silence, and returned it with the words,
"How does this affect me?"
"My child has fled," said Seth.
"How does that affect me?"
"Your son is with her."
"Twill satisfy you," said Mr. Temple, with a frown, "that you are labouring under a gross error." He touched the bell; the servant answered it. "Go to Mr. Arthur Temple, and tell him I desire to see him."
"He is not in the house, sir."
"Has he been long absent?"
"Not long, sir," replied the man who, through a fellow-servant, was enabled to give the information. "He left in great haste for the railway station to catch a train, I heard."
"For what place?"
"For Sevenoaks, sir."
Mr. Temple was aware that Seth's lynx eyes were upon him, and that it would give the common man an advantage if he exhibited surprise.
"Send Richards to me."
"Richards left the house with your son, sir."
Throughout his life Mr. Temple had proved himself equal to emergencies.
"You have nothing further to say to me, I presume," he said, addressing himself to Seth.
"Nothing that your own sense of honour and justice does not dictate," was the reply.
"It dictates nothing that you can have a claim to hear. There is the door."
Seth had his reasons now for not wishing to prolong the interview.
"I will not trouble you any longer, sir. I know what kind of justice I might expect from you in such a matter as this. From this moment it is for me to act, not to talk. I have but this to say before I leave. If my child comes to grief through your son-if he inflicts a wrong upon her-I will devote my life to exposing both him and you."
He quitted the room upon this, and, giving instructions to the cab-driver, bade Sally jump in.
"Where are you going now, Daddy?" asked Sally.
"To Sevenoaks. We may yet be in time."
The same train which conveyed him and Sally to Sevenoaks, conveyed Mr. Temple also. The men did not see each other. Mr. Temple rode first-class, Seth and Sally third.
The snowstorm showed no sign of abatement; steadily and heavily the white flakes fell.
The links which fate weaves around human lives were drawing closer and closer around the lives of the actors in this story; every yard that was traversed by the train, conveying Seth and Mr. Temple, strengthened the threads which for years had been so far distant from one another, that nothing but the strangest circumstance could have prevented them from eventually breaking. As Seth gazed from the window upon the falling snow, he prayed that he might be in time to save the child of his love, or to assure himself that she was on the right track. To Mr. Temple the heavy snowfall brought the memory of a night long buried in the past, when he had stood hidden near a quaint old church, while strangers' hands were saving from death the woman he had betrayed. And an uneasy feeling crept into his mind at the thought that the church was within a mile of the place towards which he was wending his way.
CHAPTER XXVIII
The thoughts which occupied the mind of Mrs. Lenoir and the Duchess when they met at the railway-station were of too disturbing a nature to allow of conversation. Only a few words were exchanged. Mrs. Lenoir, who was the first to arrive, accosted the Duchess immediately she entered the waiting-room.
"You are the young lady I am to accompany to Sevenoaks?"
The uttermost power of her will could not prevent her voice from trembling.
The Duchess glanced at the speaker, but her agitation prevented her from closely observing Mrs. Lenoir. She saw, however, that Mrs. Lenoir's dress and manner were those of a lady.
"Mr. Temple told me I should meet a lady here," said the Duchess.
"I saw him to-day," returned Mrs. Lenoir, "and it was arranged that I should come to you."
The gentle voice acted soothingly upon the Duchess.
"I have the tickets; the train starts at a quarter to seven. What a dreadful night it is! We must be quick, or we shall miss the train."
"We have ample time," said Mrs. Lenoir, looking at the clock; "it is not half-past six. You look faint and weary, my dear; have you had tea?"
"No."
"Come into the refreshment-room, and, drink a cup. It will do you good."
Every nerve in Mrs. Lenoir's body quivered as the girl placed her hand in hers; they went together to the refreshment-room, where they drank their tea, and then, hurrying to the train, they entered a first-class carriage. The journey was made in silence; the carriage was full, and such converse as they could hold could not take place in the presence of strangers. The Duchess leant back upon the soft cushions and closed her eyes, and Mrs. Lenoir watched her with silent love. She saw in the Duchess's face so startling a likeness to her own when she herself was a girl, that words were scarcely needed to prove to her that her child was sitting by her side. But that she knew that all her physical and mental strength was required to compass the end she had in view, she could not have restrained her feelings.
In due time they arrived at Sevenoaks, and Mrs. Lenoir inquired whether they were to wait at the station.
"Oh, no," said the Duchess, handing a paper to Mrs. Lenoir. "Mr. Temple has written what we are to do."
Mrs. Lenoir read the instructions, to the effect that when they reached Sevenoaks they were to take a fly and drive to an hotel, the "Empire," where, in accordance with a telegram he had sent to the proprietor, they would find rooms prepared for them.
"Stay here a moment, my dear," said Mrs. Lenoir.
She went to a porter, and asked him whether the "Empire" was a respectable hotel.
"It's one of the best in Sevenoaks," was the reply. "Shall I get you a fly?"
"If you please."
She quickly decided that the best course to pursue was to go at once to the hotel, where she could unravel the plot to the Duchess; events would determine what was to follow. Before she rejoined the Duchess she walked to a young man and woman, who were standing on the platform a little apart from the throng, and spoke to them. This couple had travelled third-class from London by the same train; Mrs. Lenoir had seen them at Ludgate Hill Station, but it had been understood between them that they should not appear to know each other.
"You have proved yourselves good friends to me," she said to them hurriedly; "we are going to an hotel called the 'Empire.' Follow us at once, and be ready to come to me if I want you there."
They signified by a gesture that they understood and would obey her, and then Mrs. Lenoir and the Duchess walked to the fly, and drove to the "Empire."
They found the rooms ready, and the landlady herself led them up the stairs. A bright fire was burning, and everything presented a cheerful appearance. The Duchess took off her gloves, and Mrs. Lenoir assisted her to remove her hat and cloak, and removed her own hat and veil. Then, for the first time on that night, the girl saw Mrs. Lenoir's face in full, clear light. She started back, with an exclamation of alarm.
"I have seen you before!"
"Yes, my dear-but do not avoid me; I implore you to listen to me! It is not I who am deceiving you-indeed, indeed, it is not! I am here for your good."
"I do not understand," said the Duchess, looking vaguely around. "Mr. Temple said that a lady-relative would meet me at the station. Are you not a relative of his?"
"I am not in any way related to the man who has been paying his addresses to you-"
"Of the gentleman, you mean," interrupted the Duchess, with a pride that was made pitiable by the doubt and suspicion that was mingled with it.
"As you will, my child. I will speak of him presently. There is something nearer to my heart, which will break if you do not listen to what I have to say."
"I cannot listen," said the Duchess, "until you prove in some way that you are not deceiving me."
"Thank God, I have the proof with me. On the night you saw me lying senseless in the snow, this gentleman you call Mr. Temple was with you."
"Yes, and when I left you he promised to help you home."
"He kept his promise, and learned where I live. I had never seen him before, nor had he ever seen me; we were utter strangers to each other. Yet to-day, this very morning, he came to me, and proposed that I should enter into a plot to betray you! He proposed that I should present myself to you as his aunt, as a lady who was favourable to his elopement with you, and that in this capacity I should accompany you here. For your good I consented-to save you I am here. Say that you believe me."
"Part of what you say must be true; but you said you have the proof with you-what proof, and what are you going to prove?"
"That this man is no gentleman-that he is a villain-and that his name is not Temple. On my knees-on my knees! – I thank God that it is in my power to save you from the fatal precipice upon which you are standing! Trust me-believe in me; I am a woman like yourself, and my life has been a life of bitter, bitter sorrow!"
She was on her knees before the Duchess, clasping the girl's hands, and gazing imploringly into her face. Her strange passion, the earnestness of her words, her suffering gentle face, were not without their effect upon the frightened girl; but some kind of stubbornness to believe that her hopes of becoming a lady were on the point of being overturned rendered her deaf to the appeal in any other way than it affected herself. The threatened discovery was so overwhelming as to leave no room for pity or sympathy for the woman kneeling before her.
"Where is your proof?" asked the Duchess.
Mrs. Lenoir started to her feet, and ringing the bell, gave a whispered instruction to the maid who answered it. In a few moments Lizzie and Charlie entered the room. They were the persons who came third-class from London, by the same train which conveyed Mrs. Lenoir and the Duchess to Sevenoaks; with some vague idea that she might need Charlie's testimony, Mrs. Lenoir had begged Lizzie to ask him to come.
"Lizzie," said Mrs. Lenoir, "will you tell this young lady what you know of me?"
"I know nothing but good, Mrs. Lenoir," replied Lizzie, taking her hand, and kissing it; "there isn't a man or woman in our neighbourhood who hasn't a kind word for you."
"My dear," said Mrs. Lenoir, addressing the Duchess, "this is a girl who lives in the same house as I do, and who has known me for years. What is the matter with you, Lizzie?" For the girl was gazing at the Duchess with a look of wild admiration and interest.
"I beg your pardon," said Lizzie, "but is the young lady your daughter that you spoke to me of last night-"
Lizzie was stopped in her speech by a sob from Mrs. Lenoir, who hid her face in her hands, and turned from them, hearing as she turned, a whisper from the Duchess:
"What does she mean? Your daughter! Oh, my God! Let me look at you again."
But Mrs. Lenoir kept her face hidden from the girl, and said, with broken sobs:
"Let me have my way a little, my dear. I will speak more plainly presently, when we are alone. Give me your hand-"
She held the pretty fingers which the Duchess gave her, with a clinging loving pressure which caused the girl's heart to thrill with hope and fear.
"Hear what Lizzie has to say first. Lizzie, you were in my room this morning when a gentleman called to see me?"
"Yes, Mrs. Lenoir."
"You heard him inquiring for me?"
"Yes."
"Did he give any name?"
"After he left, I heard that he called himself Mr. Temple."
While these words were spoken, Mrs. Lenoir, finding herself unable to stand, sank into a chair, and the Duchess, sinking to her knees, hid her face in her lap, holding Mrs. Lenoir's hand.
"Describe the man, Lizzie," said Mrs. Lenoir.
Lizzie did so in a graphic manner; the portrait she presented was truthful and unmistakable. Every word that was being uttered was carrying conviction to the Duchess's soul.
"When he left the house," said Mrs. Lenoir, "Charlie and you-Charlie and Lizzie are engaged, my dear, and will soon be married," – this to the Duchess-"Charlie and you were in the passage, and he passed you."
"Yes."
"Charlie, you saw his face?"
"I did, ma'am."
"And recognised it?"
"As sure as anything's sure, though a good many years have gone by since I saw it last."
"Was his name Temple?"
"Not by a long way."
"Tell me his name again, Charlie."
"Ned Chester his name was, and is," added Charlie positively.
At the mention of the name a shudder passed through the Duchess's frame.
"What character did he bear when you knew him?"
"A precious bad one; not to put too fine a point upon it, he was a thief."
"That will do, Charlie. Good night; good night, Lizzie."
"Good night, Mrs. Lenoir, God bless you."
"Thank you, my dears."
In another moment Mrs. Lenoir and the Duchess were again alone.
The questions had been asked by Mrs. Lenoir with the distinct purpose of convincing the Duchess that she was acting in good faith and for the girl's good. She felt that she was on her trial, as it were, and out of the teachings of her own sad experience she gathered wisdom to act in such a way as to win confidence. On the Duchess the effect produced was convincing, so far as the man whose attention she had accepted was concerned; but a dual process of thought was working in her mind-one associated with the lover who would have betrayed her, the other associated with the woman who had stepped between her and her peril.
"My dear," said Mrs. Lenoir, after an interval of silence, during which the Duchess had not raised her head, and Mrs. Lenoir was strengthening herself for the coming trial, "will you give me what information you can concerning yourself which will help to guide us both in this sad hour?"
A pressure of her fingers answered her in the affirmative.
"Keep your eyes from me till I bid you rise," continued Mrs. Lenoir, with heaving bosom. "Where do you live?"
"In Rosemary Lane."
"Have you lived all your life there?"
"Since I was a very little child."
"You were not born there?"
"Oh, no; I do not know where I was born-" Mrs. Lenoir's eyes wandered to the window which shut out the night. She could not see it, but she felt that the snow was falling; "and," said the Duchess in a faltering voice, "I cannot remember seeing the face of my mother."
"Tell me all you know, my dear; conceal nothing from me."
In broken tones the girl told every particular of her history, from her introduction into Rosemary Lane, as the incident had been related to her by Seth Dumbrick, to the present and first great trial in life.
"Look up, my dear."
The Duchess raised her eyes, almost blinded with tears. Mrs. Lenoir tenderly wiped them away, and placed in the girl's hand the miniature portrait of herself, painted in her younger and happier days.
"It is like me," murmured the girl.
"It is my picture when I was your age." She sank to her knees by the side of the Duchess. "At this time and in this place my story is too long to tell. You shall learn all by-and-by, when we are safe. I had a child-a daughter, born on such a night as this, in sorrow and tribulation. My memory is too treacherous, and the long and severe illness I passed through was too terrible in its effects upon me, to enable me to recall the circumstances of that period of my life. But I had my child, and she drew life from my breast, and brought gleams of happiness to my troubled soul. I have no recollection how long a time passed, till a deep darkness fell upon me; but when I recovered, and my reason was restored to me, I was told that my child was dead. I had no power to prove that it was false; I was weak, friendless, penniless, and I wandered into the world solitary and alone. But throughout all my weary and sorrowful life, a voice-God's voice-never ceased whispering to me that my child was alive, and that I should one day meet her, and clasp her to my heart! In this hope alone I have lived; but for this hope I should have died long years ago. Heaven has fulfilled its promise, and has brought you to my arms. I look into your face, and I see the face of my child; I listen to your voice, and I hear the voice of my child! God would not deceive me! In time to come, when you have heard my story, we will, if you decide that it shall be so, seek for worldly proof. I think I see the way to it, and if it is possible it shall be found."
She rose from her knees, and standing apart from the wondering weeping girl, said, in a low voice, between her sobs:
"In my youth I was wronged. I was innocent, as God is my judge! My fault was, that I trusted and believed; that I, a young girl inexperienced in the world's hard ways, listened to the vows of a man, whom I loved with all my soul's strength; whom I believed in as I believe in Eternal justice! That was my sin. I have been bitterly punished; no kiss of love, no word of affection that I could receive as truly my right, has been bestowed upon me since I was robbed of my child. I have been in darkness for years; I am in darkness now, waiting for the light to shine upon my soul!"
It came. Tender arms stole about her neck, loving lips were pressed to hers. In an agony of joy she clasped the girl to her bosom, and wept over her. For only a few moments did she allow herself the bliss of this reunion. She looked, affrighted, to a clock on the mantelpiece.
"At what time did that man say he would be here to meet us?" she asked in a hurried whisper.
"At eleven o'clock," was the whispered reply.
"It wants but five minutes to the hour. We must go, child; we must fly from this place. No breath of suspicion must attach itself to my child's good name. Come-quickly, quickly!"
The Duchess allowed Mrs. Lenoir to put on her hat and cloak, and before the hour struck they were in the street, hastening through the snow.
Whither? She knew not. But fate was directing her steps.