VERY slowly and wearily the days went on at the High Elms. Lord Hardcastle, now become an acknowledged inmate of the house, scarcely recognised himself in the life he was leading, so completely were his occupations and surroundings reversed. Habituated to the quiet monotony of a life of study, broken only by a yearly visit to London to attend the meetings of the various scientific societies of which he was a member, it was not the solitude of the house which jarred upon his nerves and feelings. He had from his earliest youth been accustomed to keep his impulses and passions well under control, and his highly nervous temperament had ever been perfectly balanced by his well cultivated reasoning powers. Under the trying circumstances through which he had passed, his health had not suffered in the slightest degree, and yet here was he, reasonable and self-contained as ever, in a state of nervous irritability for which he could not account. “It is an atmosphere of mystery that I am breathing,” he would say to himself, “at every turn something confronts me for which I am totally unprepared. Why, for instance, the inscription on Amy’s grave? and why is it that I, who loved her so truly and who held her cold and lifeless in my arms, have as yet no feeling of utter blank despair in my heart, but only some strong undefinable impulse which is for ever urging me on, on, on, in the search for the truth?” And the more he thought the more he wondered, until his brain became as it were sick and giddy with revolving so constantly round one centre.
Mr. Warden, on his part, seemed to have settled down into the absolute quietude of a hopeless, aimless life. He had become altogether an old man in his ways and habits, and was leading the life of one who knows the future will have no good thing in store for him, and who therefore lives entirely in the memory of the past. About Mrs. Warden, and her illness and death, he would talk freely, but when once or twice Lord Hardcastle had purposely mentioned Amy’s name to him, he had either abruptly quitted the room or else so pointedly turned the conversation that another remark on the subject would have been impossible.
“It cuts him to the heart even to hear me speak of her, and he must know she is never out of my mind,” thought Lord Hardcastle, as he looked across the library to where Mr. Warden was sitting with an open volume before him, but his eyes dreamily fixed on the window pane—his thoughts evidently far away.
“See here, Mr. Warden,” he said suddenly, crossing the room to him, “I may seem impertinent to you in what I am about to ask, but I have a real reason for asking the question. I loved your daughter living (God knows how truly) and I love her dead. If she had lived she might never have been my wife—who can tell—but her good name, dead as she is, is as dear to me as though she had been. Will you tell me—I ask it as a great favour—why you had inscribed on her tomb a name so different to the one we were accustomed to know her by?”
“It was her right name, the one she was christened,” said Mr. Warden dreamily, his thoughts still far away and his eyes looking beyond his book.
Then Lord Hardcastle summoned together all his courage, and making a great effort asked the one question which had occupied his mind through so many sorrowful days, and to which, indeed, his former question was but intended to lead the way.
“Mr. Warden, tell me one thing else, I beg of you; indeed it is not from idle curiosity I ask it, was Aimée the name of Miss Warden’s mother?”
At these words Mr. Warden visibly started, and his face grew ashy pale; then controlling himself with an effort, he replied “Mrs. Warden’s name was Helen, I thought you knew.”
“Yes, I knew that; forgive me, Mr. Warden, if my conduct seem grossly impertinent to you. I know I have not the slightest right to ask these questions, but if you think I have in any way been to you as a son through these long sorrowful days, as a son I beg for the confidence of my father.”
“A son! ah, you have indeed been to me as a son in my affliction! But you are probing old wounds now, my young friend, and asking for a story sadder than the one you know already, because there is sin and crime mixed up in it.”
There was a pause, neither spoke for some minutes. Mr. Warden shaded his face with both hands, and his thoughts wandered back to his bright young days when sorrow seemed a far-away thing and death a hideous impossibility. The long sorrowful years that had since come and gone, faded from his memory; he no longer saw the room where he sat, nor even his companion, and rushing back upon him in full force came the recollection of young, strong passions, early hopes and fears, bright sunshiny hours when life was better worth having than it now was.
At length he uncovered his face and began speaking slowly as one in a dream. “I can see her now, see her as she stood the first day I saw her, in the lonely mountain country. Her feet on the black-red lava, the glowing sunset behind her head, her rich dark beauty flashing back every gold and crimson ray. I can see yet, her long white dress with its bright coloured ribbons and the dark-faced nurse by her side who scowled and frowned at me as my eyes expressed the wonder and admiration I felt. There and then I could have knelt at her feet and worshipped her as a goddess. Young and passionate, I poured out my all of love and devotion at her shrine; she vowed she loved me as I loved her; she took my heart into her keeping—played with it—broke it—and threw it on one side for ever.”
He paused, overcome by his recollections. Lord Hardcastle leaned forward breathlessly. Here was Mr. Warden voluntarily according the confidence he was so eager to obtain.
Presently Mr. Warden recommenced. “I married her according to the rites of her own Church. I can see her now in her royal beauty (she had the blood of Spanish kings in her veins) as she swept down the aisle, the small head thrown back, the dark eyes sometimes flashing, sometimes drooping, the full-parted lips and the delicate nostril. Lord Hardcastle,” he said suddenly turning to the young man, “You thought my daughter lovely, I suppose, but compared with her mother, my first Aimée, she was but as the wild white daisy to the queenly lily.”
Again he paused, then once more recommenced—
“For four short years we lived together, in perfect love but not in peace, for her wilful, passionate temper raised many storms between us. At last I felt it my duty to endeavour to curb, if I could not conquer, her waywardness; but I found the task altogether beyond me—I had so indulged her every whim and fancy that she would not brook the slightest control at my hands. Her nurse, Isola, added not a little to our difficulties; she worshipped her young mistress as a being of a superior order, and was continually representing to her that I had become harsh and tyrannical of late, whereas I was simply endeavouring to teach my wife how to acquire a little self-control. Seeing this, I contrived one morning to have a long quiet talk with Isola on the matter. I assured her my one object was to secure the peace and happiness of her young mistress, and begged her to aid me in my efforts as far as possible.
“But it was useless. Isola was loud and stubborn in her Cevenol patois. Mademoiselle (so she still called my wife) was perfect. What would I? Did I wish to freeze the warm southern blood in her veins, and teach her the cunning and caution of the cold-hearted northerners? Had not Aimée’s father and mother, each in dying, committed their darling to her care, and no power in heaven or earth would induce her to betray the trust. ‘I love those who love her,’ the poor ignorant faithful creature concluded, ‘and those who hate her, I hate also with an undying hatred.’ These last words she almost hissed in my face, then abruptly turned and left me, taking my little girl by the hand, telling her to come and gather lilies to make a crown for her dear mamma.
“Then I went to Aimée herself, and asked if she were ready to give me some real proof of her love, for I had come to ask her a great favour—
“‘What is it?’ said Aimée, petulantly, ‘I have not loved you so well lately, for you have been cross and cruel to me.’
“How lovely she looked that morning, angry and scornful though she was. I remember she was threading some bright Andalusian beads, one of our little girl’s lily crowns, half-faded, drooped over her forehead, and an Indian scarf, draped round her waist, fell in folds over her white dress. Poor, poor Aimée! My girl-wife! then scarcely nineteen years of age—till I die, your image will remain in my mind fresh and glowing, as on that last morning I looked on your sweet face!
“The favour I had to ask was a very simple one. I merely wished to take my wife and daughter to England, and introduce both to my friends and relations, from whom I had been, to a certain extent, alienated during my long residence in France. But the one thing which I begged with great earnestness was, that Isola should be left behind with her own people. I explained to her that my motive in asking this was a kind one. Isola should be well cared for during our absence, and, as I loved my wife well, I wished to have her all to myself, for a short time at any rate.
“Then the storm burst. It was terrible to see my wife’s anger—
“‘Did I wish to kill her in some secret place,’ she asked, ‘that I should thus take her away from her own bright land, and the one, the only one who loved her truly?’
“The scene was indescribable; in vain I attempted to reason with, or calm her. In a perfect whirlwind of fury, she swept out of the room.
“I would not trust myself to follow her, so much had my temper been aroused. So calling to my little girl, who was playing in the garden, we went together for a long ramble among the mountains; I thought that perhaps alone with my little one in the sweet air I might somewhat recover my calmness, and would better arrange my plan of action for the future. We did not return until nearly evening, Amy singing and scattering flowers as we went. At the door of my house I was met by one of the servants, who handed to me a letter from my wife, and in answer to my enquiry, informed me that she and Isola had gone out immediately after I had, and not since returned.
“With a foreboding of calamity, I opened the letter and read these words, they are burnt into my memory, ‘You no longer love me. Your every look and action prove it. For many months I have seen your love slipping away from me, and I have not cared to stretch out my hand to keep it. I go to one who has worshipped me from my earliest childhood, to my cousin in Arragon. In his house, and in his presence, I will see you if you wish, but never seek to win me back to your home again, for I have torn your image out of my heart.
“‘AIMÉE.’
“I staggered like a man who had received a heavy blow; the room swam round and round before my eyes; then all was darkness, and I fell heavily to the ground. Lord Hardcastle, do I weary you? When you asked for my confidence just now, did you expect to hear such a story as this of Amy’s mother?”
“No, I did not, Mr. Warden; and may I ask you, did Amy ever know of her mother’s guilt, or did she imagine that your second wife was her real mother?”
“No, to both your questions. Amy was told her mother was dead, as far as she could be made to understand what that was; but her fascinating image was so deeply rooted in the child’s mind, that I do not believe she ever forgot her. Later on—but no, I will not anticipate, but will tell you in proper order each successive event.
“When I came to my senses, I fully realized the depth of my misery, and at once took measures to ascertain if my wife had really done as she threatened. Alas! it was only too easily ascertained—the shamelessness of her conduct was absolutely appalling. Stricken to the heart, though I was, I made no effort to win her back; ‘she has ceased to love me, let her go,’ was the one thought in my mind, and henceforth my little Amy would have all my love and care.
“I hastened to take her to a place where her mother’s name and sin would be unknown. So I left the Haute Loire province, and settled at St. Sauveur, near Bordeaux. There I engaged an excellent English governess for her (the lady who afterwards became my wife) and by study and incessant occupation endeavoured to divert my thoughts.
“About a year after we had been at St. Sauveur, I was startled one morning by the appearance of Isola standing at the gate. My first thought was that she had come to me with a message of penitence from my wife. Then, however, noticing she was clad in deep mourning, I guessed she had far different tidings to bring.
“‘Your mistress is dead,’ I asked, at once anticipating the worst. She bowed her head.
“‘Tell me everything, Isola,’ I gasped, hoping still there might be some message of love or repentance for me.
“‘There is nothing to tell,’ she replied coldly, ‘she is dead, that is all.’
“‘But where, when, how?’ I insisted, my soul thirsting and hungering after my wife.
“‘She took cold, she would not take care, and so she died, that is all,’ was the reply.
“‘And not a word or message for me, or for her daughter?’
“Then the woman laughed a harsh scornful laugh.
“‘What would Monsieur have? Don Josef took care of her, and gave her all she wanted. He was by her side when she died, and held her in his arms.’
“I had no heart to ask more; and when Isola turned her back on me without another word or salutation of any sort, I did not seek to detain her. The least sign of penitence would have brought back my old love for my wife, but to die thus, as she had lived, in sin, was the bitterest blow of all.
“My great fear at this time was lest Amy should know, by some means, any part of this terrible story. I endeavoured, and successfully, to confuse her infant mind, by constantly speaking of her mother as her governess, and the thought soon suggested itself to me, that if she had another mother given to her, the recollection of the first would be completely obliterated. Accordingly, some short time after Aimée’s death, I married my second wife. The result you know, a life of peace and comparative happiness until now.”
Again Mr. Warden paused, his calmness was evidently failing him, and it was with increased effort and difficulty that he finished his narration.
“Soon after my second marriage,” he continued, “I left St. Sauveur, hoping still farther to blot the recollection of her early days from Amy’s young mind. To a certain extent I believe I succeeded; I imagined I had quite done so, when one day, some two years ago, to my great surprise, she suddenly asked me—
“‘Papa, dear, tell me about that beautiful lady who used to play with me when I was a child; wasn’t she my very own mamma?’
“Then it was I told my little daughter the first and only lie I ever uttered, and assured her that that beautiful lady was her governess, and that Mrs. Warden was her very own mamma.
“‘Is that the truth, papa?’ asked Amy, looking up into my face; and again I assured her that was the truth. ‘Then,’ said the child, persistently, ‘I love the governess better than my own mamma, for she used to kiss and play with me, and hold me in her arms, but this mamma only does embroidery, and receives visitors all day.’ The words cut me to the heart; there never was much affection between Amy and her step-mother, their characters were so opposite, and every year the want of sympathy between them became more and more apparent. Not one of my friends and relatives knew of my second marriage; they imagined Mrs. Warden to be my first and only wife, and Mrs. Warden, without any near relatives, found no difficulty in concealing the fact that she had married a widower. We had lived such a completely isolated life among the French peasantry, that there was no fear of Amy ever hearing her mother spoken of in England; and yet, after all these precautions, here was nature asserting herself in this extraordinary manner.” Then Mr. Warden broke off abruptly. “Lord Hardcastle, I can tell you no more of this sad story. What it has cost me to talk to you thus, you will never know; let us not speak on the subject again.”
“How can I thank you, Mr. Warden?” exclaimed Hardcastle earnestly, springing forward, and clasping Mr. Warden’s hand, “how can I ever thank you for this proof of your confidence in me? For weeks past as I have thought and thought over this matter, like a man in a dream almost, my thoughts have ever led me back to you, as holding in your hands the solution of the mystery. I feel nearer the truth to-night than I have ever felt before. One ray of light breaks through the darkness, and we will follow where it leads. Mr. Warden, will you leave your home here for a time—it is dreary enough, Heaven knows—and with me visit the scenes of your first love and sorrow? Do you feel equal to it? Who knows but what the truth may lie hidden somewhere there. I cannot explain to you the workings of my own mind just now; I must try to think the matter out. At present I can only see Isola’s hatred of you, and Amy’s strong resemblance to her dead mother in impetuosity and vehemence of character. But there are other lights and shadows in the picture which must fall into their own place before it can be complete.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Warden, sadly, “Amy was a pale likeness (if I may use the expression) of her mother in mind and body. She resembled her in form and outline, so to speak, but lacked the full, brilliant colouring which made her mother so dangerously fascinating. Strange to say, the likeness was never so apparent to me as when she was lying cold and lifeless in her coffin; then I felt tempted to ask myself, is this Amy, or is it her mother?”
“And I, too,” said Lord Hardcastle, quietly, “saw a look in Amy’s face then I had never seen before. Mr. Warden, I have now but one object in life, to rescue Amy dead, as I would have rescued her living, from scorn or dishonour. I want to write the name she has a right to bear, on her now nameless tomb. I want to be able to hold up the picture of the girl I love so truly, in all her innocence, and purity, and beauty, and to say to all the world, ‘this is the one I have loved in life, whom I love in death, and whom I shall love after death, through eternity!’”
Mr. Warden looked up at the flushed, earnest face of the speaker, then he said very quietly—
“Lord Hardcastle, I thought I knew you intimately; I find I have never really known you until to-day. Yes, I will go with you to Le Puy or anywhere else you may choose. I feel equal to it, and after all, for an old man like me it doesn’t much matter in what corner of the world he may lay his bones!”