CHAPTER XVI.
THE DESPAIR OF RUFUS AND LALLY.
At the grim and warlike announcement of Mrs. Peters’ identity, delivered in Mrs. Peters’ grimmest and most warlike manner, Rufus Black recoiled involuntarily, his face expressing his utter amazement.
He had felt confident that this angular and sour-visaged woman was Miss Wroat, and that his deserted young wife was in the woman’s employ, under the assumed name of Mrs. Peters. In his astonishment and disappointment, he stood pale and speechless.
“You may go down, Mary,” said Mrs. Peters to the housemaid. “The gentleman came to see me, you hear.”
The housemaid, being in awe of Mrs. Peters, precipitately retired to the servants’ hall.
“And now, sir,” said Mrs. Peters, in such a voice as she might have employed in uttering a challenge, “what may you want with me?”
Rufus Black struggled to regain his self-control.
“There is some mistake,” he gasped. “I—I remember you. I saw you in the Regent street picture-shop the other day, with—with a young lady. I thought she called herself Mrs. Peters. I am come to see her.”
“Come in,” said Mrs. Peters, who was in inward terror of Lally’s appearance upon the scene, and who had made up her mind to prevent an interview between the young pair at all costs. “Come in, sir, and I’ll hear what you have to say.”
She conducted him to the library, which was across the hall from the drawing-rooms. It was lighted by a pendant chandelier, in which were a dozen wax candles which burned with mellow light. A great circular bay-window took up one side of the apartment, the opposite side containing a great fire-place, in which logs were burning. The angles on either side the chimney were fitted with tall book-cases, and one end of the room was also lined with rows of shelves well filled with books, and protected by plate-glass doors. At the opposite end of the room was a glazed garden door, opening upon the grassy terrace.
This room already bid fair to become a favorite resort of Lally. She had ordered it to be warmed and lighted at the same time with the drawing-room, and was likely to visit it during the evening. Mrs. Peters locked the door, therefore, as she motioned Rufus to a seat. He declined the civility, however, and remained standing, his hat in his hand.
“I remember you very well now,” said Mrs. Peters, pretending to search her memory, “now that you have mentioned the picture-shop. You are the young gentleman who annoyed the young lady with me? Yes, I remember you. What are you doing here? Why have you followed us to Scotland? Why have you come to Heather Hills?”
“I am come, madam,” cried Rufus, white and agitated, “to see the young lady who was in your company at Benson’s the other day. It is imperative that I should see her.”
“I think not,” said Mrs. Peters gravely. “In the first place, how can you be sure that the young lady is in this house?”
“I have traced her and you all the way from London,” cried Rufus. “I saw the card you gave to Benson, with the name upon it of ‘Miss Wroat, Mount street,’ with the number. I went to Mount street twice, and the second time discovered that you had left town. I hurried to the station of the great Northern, and found that the express had gone. And then—”
“And then?”
“I went to my hotel. I had not money enough for such a trip as this,” said Rufus frankly, “and so I could not come on the morning train. I had to sell my watch, a recent present from my father, and as I had then all day on my hands before I could start for the north, I went to Mount street again. In one of the streets near, I inquired at a shop about Miss Wroat, and there learned that she was an eccentric old lady—excuse me, madam, but I received a very accurate description of you. And so I knew that you were Miss Wroat, and that Lally is Mrs. Peters. I took the night train for Edinburgh, twenty-four hours later than yourself. I reached Inverness this afternoon, and discovered the names of Miss Wroat and Mrs. Peters registered at the Caledonian. A servant of the house told me that you were at Heather Hills, and a cabman brought me here. I know that Lally is in this house, madam, and I must see her!”
Mrs. Peters smiled grimly as a full comprehension of Rufus Black’s mistake dawned upon her. She understood readily that the shopman whom Rufus had interrogated had not known of Mrs. Wroat’s death, and had confounded the names of Mrs. Wroat and Miss Wroat, and that Rufus very naturally thought her the “eccentric old lady” of whom he had heard.
“And so you don’t believe that I am Mrs. Peters?” she asked.
“No, madam,” said Rufus bluntly. “I have traced an elderly lady—yourself—and a young girl—Lally—all the way from London, and under the names of Miss Wroat and Mrs. Peters. You are not Mrs. Peters, and I demand to see her.”
“You can not see her,” said Mrs. Peters stoutly. “I have heard the young lady’s story, and I shall protect her from the persecutions of a man who deserted her in the most cowardly fashion, and who, believing her to be dead, never made one movement to save her supposed remains from interment in a pauper’s grave. You have no claim upon Miss Bird, Mr. Rufus Black; you have yourself declared that she is not your wife.”
“Lally has told you all?” cried Rufus, in a low, heart-broken voice. “Not all though, for even she does not know all—the sleepless nights I’ve passed, the days of anguish! I’ve hated myself, and despised myself. I have been on the point again and again of committing suicide. Her poor young face, as I fancied it, mutilated and dead, has haunted me sleeping and waking. God alone knows my anguish, my remorse! If Lally only knew all!”
“She knows more than you think,” said Mrs. Peters significantly.
“How? What? I do not understand.”
“Miss Bird has a shelter under this roof now, and while I live she shall never want a friend,” said Mrs. Peters, purposely confirming Rufus Black’s impression that Lally was a dependent, “but she has known such extremes of poverty as would make you shudder. She left her lodgings in New Brompton, turned out by an insolent landlady, having only the clothes she stood in. She went out upon Waterloo Bridge in her despair, to commit suicide. An unfortunate girl did commit suicide, springing from Lally’s very side and Lally’s handkerchief fluttering after the poor lost creature fixed upon her Lally’s identity. Lally fled from the terrible scene, and that night she slept upon Hampstead Heath, under the open sky, with tramps and thieves all around her in the darkness, and she knowing it not—homeless, houseless, penniless—”
“O Heaven!” cried Rufus Black, in an uncontrollable agitation.
“You think it terrible for a girl so young and beautiful? Listen. Worse was to come. She went to a poor old seamstress she had known when teaching music in a school. This seamstress gave her shelter and protection, but she was dying of consumption, and Lally had soon to work for her and nurse her, and after a little to bury her. When the poor woman died, Lally was once more homeless, and without work. She was nearly starved, and her one great desire was to look upon your face again, herself unseen. And so she wandered down into Kent—”
“Into Kent? Oh, my poor girl!”
“She was ragged and tattered, hungry and forlorn. She worked in the hop-gardens for food and shelter. She saw you—”
Rufus uttered a cry of incredulity.
“She did not see me!” he ejaculated. “I should have known her in any guise. I should have felt her nearness, had she been on the opposite side of the street.”
Mrs. Peters’ lip curled.
“You think so?” she said dryly. “Let me tell you that your wronged and deserted young wife was nearer to you than that, and yet you did not know it. Do you remember a certain September evening when you sat beside the heiress of Hawkhurst upon a way-side bank, in the shadow of Hawkhurst park? Do you remember your passionate vows of love to Miss Wynde? Do you remember telling Miss Wynde that your very life here and beyond depended upon her answer to your suit? Well, there was one listening to those passionate vows whom you thought dead. In the thicket, almost within an arm’s length of you, a poor worn-out, ragged tramp was lying for a brief rest—a hungry, houseless, tattered tramp, Mr. Black—and that tramp was your disowned young wife!”
“O my God! Impossible!”
“You passed on with your beautiful new love in all her pride and her beauty, and the old love rose up from her thorny bed and crept after you like a shadow, and when you stood in the light upon the Hawkhurst terrace, with the hand of your new love pressed to your lips, the old love stood outside the great gates a long way off, and with her face against the bars looked in upon you both, as a lost soul might look in upon Paradise.”
“Oh, Lally, Lally!” cried Rufus, in a wild anguish, utterly losing his self-control. “Lally! Was she there? My poor, poor darling!”
“When you turned to come back down the avenue, she fled moaning. She had seen you, and it seemed as if she must die. But she was young and strong, and life clung to her, although her heart was breaking. She wandered on for hours, and finally lay down under a wayside hedge. The next day she worked in hop-gardens, and the next night she slept in a barn with the hop-pickers, many of whom are tramps and thieves out of London for a holiday. She earned a little money, and went to Canterbury and advertised for a situation, which she obtained—”
“As your companion, madam? May God in heaven bless you for your goodness to my poor forsaken girl! And she lived and suffered while I mourned her as dead. Oh, madam, I can explain all that seems so strange to you and her. I never loved Miss Wynde as I loved Lally. I believed Lally dead, and that I was her murderer. I was consumed with remorse and anguish. I was desperate, and going to the bad, and I prayed Miss Wynde to save me. But I loved only Lally. I pray you to let me see her. She will believe me—”
“That is the very reason I shall not permit you to see her. She is getting to take an interest in life, and I will not have her growing peace disturbed. You are engaged to this heiress—”
“O no, I am not. And if I were I would not marry her now that I know that Lally lives. My father threatened me with arrest and imprisonment if I did not give Lally up. He assured me that the marriage was null and void, and that he would provide for my poor girl. I’m a coward, Miss Wroat, a poor, pitiful coward, and I have had all my life long a deadly fear of my father. You cannot understand that fear; perhaps no one can; but I shall fling off that awe and terror of him, and be henceforth my own master. I was one-and-twenty yesterday, madam, and I am now accountable alone to God and to the laws of my country. I love Lally, and Lally alone, in all the world. I am going to try to be worthy of her. She is poor, and I am poor; but if she will take me back again,” said Rufus, humbly, “we will begin life anew, and I will try to be a better man. I will work for her, and I’ll try to be a great painter, so that she may be proud of me. And if I can’t be that, I’ll be anything that is honest and manly to earn our support. I know you have a poor opinion of me, madam, and I know I deserve it. I don’t amount to much from any point of view, but if you would intercede for me with Lally, and beg her to try me again and marry me, I will bless you always as my benefactress and savior.”
The young man’s humility and anguished pleading touched the heart of Mrs. Peters, but she steeled herself against him, and said:
“Mr. Black, I am sorry for you. I believe that you mean what you say now, but if you were once to get under your father’s influence again, Miss Lally would be as unhappy as ever. I advise you to go back to Miss Wynde, and leave Lally here. In time she may marry an honorable and upright gentleman, with whom she will be far happier than she could be with you.”
A quick flush of jealousy overspread the youth’s face. His eyes glared at Mrs. Peters with a hunted expression.
“She won’t marry again until I die, or the law has freed her from me,” he exclaimed. “I would never have proposed marriage to Miss Wynde, had I not supposed Lally to be dead. She is my wife, madam, and I’ll declare her to be such until she herself forbids me to do so. If she marries any other man I’ll kill him!”
The young man’s jealous fury was succeeded by an instant and terrible despair.
“Forgive me,” he said humbly. “What am I, to talk of controlling Lally’s movements? I have forfeited all claim upon her and upon her forgiveness. If she refuses to take me back, I can only go to perdition. If she will stretch out her hand to save me, I will be her slave. Will you not take a brief message to her from me, madam—only a few words?”
Mrs. Peters fancied she heard a light step in the hall. She listened, but convinced of her mistake, said nervously and hastily:
“I cannot convey your message, sir. I entreat you to leave Miss Bird in peace. I repeat that you cannot see her under this roof.”
“How summarily you dispose of the happiness and the very destiny of a fellow-being!” said Rufus despairingly and reproachfully. “I would see her in your presence—”
“You cannot. You have prolonged this interview beyond bounds, sir. Take my advice and go back to Miss Wynde. I must bid you a good-evening, Mr. Black. You can go out at this garden door, if you please.”
Mrs. Peters threw open the garden door, and a gust of chill wind swept in, nearly extinguishing the lights. Rufus hesitated, but the door remained open, and Mrs. Peters looked so grim and stern that he obeyed her without a murmur, and went out in a dead silence, his wild eyes giving her a last look of reproach and despair.
A minute later, she heard his cab roll away from the house.
“I wonder if I have done right,” the woman muttered uneasily, as she closed the door. “I have taken a great responsibility upon myself in deciding the fate of my young mistress. I almost wish that I had let him see her, but she is so young and tender and pitiful, she would be sure to take him back again. His eyes will haunt me. He looked as a man might look on his way to execution.”
At that moment the library door was tried from the hall, and an imperious little knock sounded upon the panels.
“Peters,” cried Lally, from without, in an agitated voice, “let me in! let me in!”
Peters calmed her face, and hastened to unlock the door.
Lally swept in impetuously, her gypsy face aglow, her black eyes full of fire, her chest panting. She held in one hand a gentleman’s glove, which she had just picked up from the hall floor.
Her keen eyes swept the room, and her countenance fell with disappointment at finding Mrs. Peters alone.
“I heard a carriage go away just now, Peters,” she cried. “Who has been here?”
“Was it not the wind, Miss?” cried Peters, flushing.
“No; I heard wheels going down the drive. And here is something I found in the hall, Peters—a man’s glove. Whose is it?”
“It might be Toppen’s, Miss—”
“It might be, but it isn’t,” said Lally, full of suppressed excitement, that made her strangely beautiful. “This is a gentleman’s glove. See how soft and fine the kid is. The color is just the shade of lavender Rufus used to wear when he wore gloves, and it has just the jessamine scent he used to drop always into his gloves. And—and here is one of the very glove buttons he used to slip from one pair of gloves to another. I would know that small gold knob, with its chased edge, anywhere. Peters, he has been here! Rufus has been here.”
The flushing, agitated face of Mrs. Peters confessed the truth.
“He has followed us up from London!” cried Lally, her eyes glowing like suns. “He has come after me and traced me to this place. He loves me still—he must love me, Peters! He must love me better than Miss Wynde?”
“He said so, Miss Lally.”
“Ah, then it is true? But why did he go away without seeing me? Why did you not call me? Perhaps he will give up all for me, thinking me still poor like himself?”
“He said he would, Miss Lally,” said poor, honest Mrs. Peters, driven to full confession. “He thinks that I am Miss Wroat, and that you are Mrs. Peters, my poor companion. And he says he loves you, and wants to marry you; but he is so unstable and cowardly, and I knew you ought to make a grand marriage, with your face and your fortune; and so—and so, Miss Lally, I sent him off, and he’s gone back to England and to Miss Wynde.”
Poor Lally stared at her maid with dilating eyes and horror-stricken countenance. Then she said, in a wailing voice:
“Oh, Peters, you meant well, I know: but—but you’ve broken my heart!”
And with a low, wild moan, Lally fell forward in a dead swoon.