THE time passed slowly and heavily to Mr. Warden during Lord Hardcastle’s absence. The Docteur Lemoine arrived in due course, the ribbon of the Legion of Honour fastened in his button-hole, and a general air of got-up-for-the-occasion about him. It was not often, indeed, that he had a patient of Mr. Warden’s standing to attend. His experiences, as a rule, were limited to the dying beds of the simple peasantry about him, for it is not often that a Cevenol mountaineer calls in the aid of a doctor—rarely, indeed, until the patient is beyond the hope of recovery.
He looked inquiringly at Mr. Warden, and was proceeding to ask him a multitude of questions, when the latter stopped him. “My friend,” he said, “I shall be your patient for such a very short time that it is really not worth while for you to take a great deal of trouble about me. My disease is mental, not bodily, and what I most require is rest and quiet. What you want to know you must find out from your own observation, and I will promise to take any remedy you may prescribe.”
“But,” expostulated the doctor, “I have been called in to attend M’sieur, who I am told is suffering. What will you? There are questions I must ask. My profession”—
“Doctor Lemoine,” again interrupted Mr. Warden, “what I wish is that you should stay in the house in case of need till my friend returns. The people here will make you very comfortable, and you can come into my room and look at me as often as you like; only, I beg, do not trouble me with any questions.”
Then the doctor bowed and withdrew, and was compelled to content himself with questioning the landlord and his wife of their strange guest, and in his broad mountain patois declared again and again that such treatment was unheard of, incredible; that if he had not seen death itself written on the stranger’s features he could not have supported such an insult.
So the time wore slowly away; the afternoon faded into evening, and Mr. Warden retired early to rest, carefully attended by the kind-hearted innkeeper.
The next morning rose grey and misty, and Mr. Warden could not repress a feeling of anxiety for his young friend traversing the (to him) unfamiliar mountain paths. What if he had missed his way and had been benighted in some lonely, unfrequented road. What if Isola’s people had proved treacherous, and looking upon him as his (Mr. Warden’s) emissary, had maltreated or perhaps murdered him! A hundred such suppositions rushed through his brain, as weak and feverish he lay on his couch in his sitting-room.
The Docteur Lemoine came in from time to time, entreating him to calm himself, and prescribing tonics or light stimulants.
Towards noon the mist began to lift, but still no sign of Lord Hardcastle. Two, three, four, five o’clock passed, and Mr. Warden started to his feet in a state of feverish excitement. “I can bear this no longer,” he said, ringing the bell violently. “We must at once organize a searching party. Doctor, don’t stand there gazing at me; we may want your help now; we have delayed too long as it is!”
As he spoke the door opened, and Lord Hardcastle slowly and quietly entered the room. His face was very pale, but a look had come into his eyes, a quiet triumphant sort of look, which seemed to say plainly “we have fought a good fight and have conquered at last.”
“Thank Heaven, Hardcastle, you are safe! What has happened? Tell me quickly, for I can see you have something to tell me,” said Mr. Warden, sinking back once more on to his couch.
“Yes, much has happened, Mr. Warden, and I have a great deal to tell you. But you must nerve yourself to bear the news, and prepare to receive a great surprise. Doctor, where are your tonics? we shall want them just now, and then, I hope and trust, get rid of them all for ever!”
“Hardcastle, Hardcastle! speak out I implore you; this is simply torture; you speak as if you had some good news to tell. Great Heavens, what good news can there be for me, with wife and daughter both dead and buried in darkness and disgrace!”
“Yes, Mr. Warden, I will speak out plainly,” replied Lord Hardcastle calmly. “Are you sure both wife and daughter are dead and buried? Listen to me. When Isola came to you and told you your wife was dead, she told you a lie. This she was ordered to do by your wife, who had soon wearied of her life of sin and returned with her to these mountains. Thoroughly repentant, and anxious to repair the wrong she had done you, she framed this lie in order that you might forget her, and in a second marriage lose the recollection of the misery of the first. Isola, only too glad once more to have her young charge in her own care, faithfully fulfilled her mission. This I have heard from Isola’s own lips, and I must say truer or more passionate devotion than her’s to her mistress, I have never seen.”
“My wife not dead,” repeated Mr. Warden slowly, as though scarcely able to grasp the fact. “Where is she Hardcastle? Take me to her or bring her to me! my poor, poor Aimée! Is she waiting for my forgiveness before she will come?”
“I did not say that your wife was living now, Mr. Warden; she died about two months since. It is a sad, sad story,” he spoke very slowly now, pausing long between each sentence. “In England, one stormy night in September, we will pray that she lost her footing in the dark, and fell into the swollen stream; she lies buried in Harleyford churchyard.”
Then Mr. Warden sprang to his feet and threw up his arms with an exceeding bitter cry.
“My Aimée, my poor Aimée! I see it all now, it was she who stood outside the window in the rain and tempest. No, no, Hardcastle, you cannot blind my eyes. There was no accidental slipping into the dark river, she could not bear the sight of my love and devotion to another woman, and in her madness and jealousy threw away her life.”
“Let us rather hope, Mr. Warden,” said Lord Hardcastle gravely, “that the same feeling of penitence and self-sacrifice which induced her long years since to send you a fictitious message of her death, led her to render the fiction a reality in order to save you from the disgrace of an exposure of your sorrows, and that you might live in peace with the one whom you had chosen.”
Mr. Warden made no reply, he sunk back in a chair and covered his face with both hands.
Then the doctor interposed; he had been gazing in amazement from one to the other, totally unable to understand their English, yet thoroughly comprehending that something startling and wonderful, and of great importance to Mr. Warden, had occurred.
“See how M’sieur suffers,” he said angrily, addressing Lord Hardcastle, “he cannot sustain any more such news. Cannot Milord wait until to-morrow for the rest which must be said?” Then he handed to Mr. Warden a glass of wine.
“There is no reason why I should wait until to-morrow,” replied Hardcastle, speaking loudly to attract Mr. Warden’s attention, “he has heard the worst now, all that remains to be told is good news.”
“Good news!” exclaimed Mr. Warden, “what good news can there be for me? My wife, my daughter!—Ah! my other Amy, have you heard of her, Hardcastle? Tell me quickly what you know, where is she, living or dead?”
“I have heard of her, I have seen her, I have even spoken with her. Mr. Warden! can you bear good news, the best of news? Your daughter Amy is in this house now, and waiting only for a word from you—” He paused, for Mr. Warden once more risen to his feet, had suddenly staggered and fallen back senseless in his chair.
Now the little doctor took the lead—
“I have obeyed Milord too long, in resting here so tranquilly. You must follow my orders now,” he said, severely and dictatorially.
“Willingly,” replied Lord Hardcastle, as he assisted to remove Mr. Warden to a couch. “I only stipulate one thing, and that is, that when my friend opens his eyes they shall rest first on the being he loves best in the world, his only daughter.”
And they did so rest. Amy crept noiselessly into the room, paler, thinner, graver than in the old days, and kneeling by her father’s side, took his hand in hers.
The movement aroused him. He opened his eyes, and they rested full on her face. Amy controlled herself admirably.
“Papa, dear,” she said, “you must not speak till I give you permission; I am going to turn both doctor and nurse (with a smile at Hardcastle) out of office, and endeavour to cure you myself.”
“I am cured already,” replied Mr. Warden, as he held his daughter tightly clasped in his arms, “you are only just in time, Amy; a few more days’ delay, and you would have been indeed an orphan,” then he checked himself. How much did his daughter know? How should he tell her what she must be told?
“Miss Warden knows all she need know,” said Lord Hardcastle, rightly interpreting his thoughts. “She has also, on her part, very much to tell you, but I do implore you wait at least for a day before you talk over the sad events of the past few months.”
He spoke earnestly, and as he did so laid his hand entreatingly on Mr. Warden’s arm, which still encircled Amy’s waist. Then, for the first time, Amy saw glittering on his little finger her own ruby ring.
“Papa, dear,” she exclaimed in her old, quick, imperious manner, “will you ask Lord Hardcastle what right he has to wear a ring of mine?”
“I have no right whatever to do so, Miss Warden,” said Hardcastle gravely. Then he drew the ring from his finger, and handing it to her with a low bow, left the room.