Long years went by and, after leading a wild, sinful life, the servant of Lord Hamilton, while lying on a bed of sickness that he never thought to leave, repented of the evil deeds he had done and prayed for life, that he might atone for the deep wrong he had done his master's widow and her orphan child. He did not die, and, with penitent earnestness, sought far and wide for those he had so wronged. The wife was dead and the child in a distant land. There he searched, but all in vain. The stranger who had taken her was unknown, and the unhappy man was wandering over England in despair, when, worn with sorrow and remorse, he lay ill and friendless in a cottage. There came to him with gentle words the child he had so sinned against, now grown to womanhood, yet bearing in her face and name sure signs that she was daughter of the master whose dying trust he had betrayed. Her story proved his wild hopes true, and, with new strength and deepest joy, he hastened to restore the packet with a full confession, making the poor orphan girl the rightful heiress of her father's wealth. That repentant servant was the strange old man. That child was Edith.
With a heart filled with wonder, joy, and gratitude and eyes blinded by her falling tears, Edith looked with all a daughter's love upon the faces that seemed smiling tenderly upon her. Now, after years of loneliness and sorrow, she was proved their child. No more a friendless orphan, she now might claim the love and honor of her kindred and take her place among them as the fairest and most worthy of the rank and name now hers.
Long she sat in silent happiness, forgetful of the world around her, lost in loving memories of the past and bright dreams for the future, when suddenly a wild thought darted through her mind as she remembered that the fortune that she now might claim had passed to the younger brother of her father. That brother was the friend who had taken her, a friendless orphan, to his home and made her lonely life a pleasant one by his kind care and generous protection. As the bitter tears fell fast, she bowed her head and prayed for strength to do what her grateful heart had whispered was her duty.
Mournful thoughts of the loveless, solitary life now hers, of her poverty and her dependence on the bounty of the friends whose wealth was all now rightfully her own rose sadly up before her. The sweet visions she made of loving friends and kindred gathering round her when her strange tale should be known, of happiness and honor and the joy of blessing others as she herself had been blessed, all these fair hopes seemed brighter and more beautiful when now she must renounce them.
Long and hard was the struggle in that gentle heart, which cared little for wealth but longed so earnestly for love and kindness and so sadly felt the sorrow of a lonely life, but still strong and deep lay her fadeless gratitude. Silently she put away the bright dreams she had cherished and banished from her lonely bosom all the sweet hopes she had made of tenderness and joy. With the holy light of a noble, self-denying love shining upon her pure, pale face and in her earnest eyes, she placed the locket in her bosom, saying, as she kissed it fondly, "God forgive me if I sin in doing this, but surely it is easier to suffer poverty and sorrow than to bring such care and trouble to the home where, as a friendless child, I have dwelt so long and peacefully. I will destroy all tokens of the joy that might be mine. Though I put away this earthly wealth, I shall be forever rich in the peace of my own soul and the hope that these dear faces smile upon the child who strives to be more worthy of their love." Placing the papers in her desk, she hastened out to finish the great sacrifice she had begun.
As the door closed on her, a dark face appeared from behind the curtained bed, and a moment after, Louis, the young page, stole to the desk, saying as he opened the packet she had again refolded, "She has watched and followed me as if I were a thief. I will show her that I am no child to be so spied upon. I'll take the smallest of these precious papers and work some mischief with it and so be revenged for all her hateful watching." With these words, he hid a paper in his bosom, replaced the packet, and stole out with a dark smile on his face.
Since the night when Edith had discovered him with the stolen money in his hand, he had avoided her and seen with growing anger that she seemed to watch him silently. Forgetting all he and his mother owed her, he hated her for the quiet guard she seemed to keep upon his actions, and he waited only for an opportunity to vent his wounded pride and anger in some way that would annoy and trouble her. He had seen the stranger and had listened to the message he delivered with the packet and then had stolen to her room and there concealed himself to learn the secret that the old man had confided to her. By her tears and broken words, he had discovered that some great joy had befallen her and hoped by taking the paper he should destroy it.
Edith, little dreaming what had chanced while she was gone, returned bearing a light and, without another look, set fire to the packet and stood calmly watching while it slowly burned to ashes, and with it all the wealth and rank she might have won. As the last flame died away, she turned her sad eyes to the summer sky that smiled above her with a silent prayer that she might prove worthy of her parents' love and of the peace her sacrifice had won.
And with a heavy secret in her gentle heart, she left the chamber where so hard a struggle had been so nobly won.
CHAPTER
XII
DAYS WENT ON AND EDITH, WITH a deep joy in her heart, grew daily gayer and more lovely, for though none knew it but herself, she was surrounded by her family. They saw the color bloom upon her cheek and silent happiness beam in her eyes and wondered what had caused the change, but little dreamed they of the sacrifice the gentle girl had made for them.
"What are you looking at so earnestly, Lord Percy, and what fine discovery have you made?" said Amy gaily as she saw his eyes fixed on some object in the small boudoir adjoining the drawing room where they were sitting.
He started and replied, "I was very idly wondering why Miss Adelon should look so long and sadly at that portrait of your uncle. She has never seen him, I believe."
"Oh, no," said Amy, "we can none of us remember him. He died many years ago, but it is very strange what she can find in his picture to call forth the tears I can see standing in her eyes."
"It is because she can see the likeness that it bears to our own father, Amy," said her brother gently, "and the memory of some kind word he has spoken brought those grateful tears, for she remembers with a daughter's love his care of her."
"It may be a foolish fancy of my own, but did you never think Miss Adelon bore a strong resemblance to that portrait, the same dark eyes beneath a high, white brow and a sweet smile on the lips? I have seen it often but never thought to speak of it till now," said Lord Percy.
"Yes," replied young Hamilton, "I can see it plainly as she is standing now. With that fine color in her cheeks, she does resemble him, but he was never married and her parents were Italians."
Little thought they while thus talking that Edith, with a daughter's love, looked fondly on her father's face and longed to call him by the dear name that her lips had never uttered, nor how hard she strove to still the tender thoughts that brought the bright tears to her eyes and made the secret of her heart so heavy to be borne.
"Mama, dear, you look sad. What has chanced to trouble?" said Amy some time after, as her mother entered with an anxious look upon her face.
"I am disturbed, my love, for I have lost some bank notes from my desk, and it grieves me to find that I cannot trust those around me," said Lady Hamilton as she sat beside her niece.
"Have you no suspicion who it was?" asked Lady Ida. "For I have," she added in a lower voice, drawing her aunt's attention to Edith, whose cheek was crimson as she bent still lower to her work.
"As soon suspect my own child, Ida," whispered her aunt, adding aloud, "I know not whom to charge with it and fear to wrong some innocent person by my false suspicion. This is not the first time it has happened. Smaller sums have disappeared. You remember my telling you, Ida, of it some time ago. I took no notice of it then, hoping it would never chance again. I am disappointed, for a large sum has been taken, and now I
shall not rest till I discover who has so deceived me, and whoever it may be, I shall instantly discharge without a character."
"Are you ill, Miss Adelon?" said Lady Ida, turning their attention to her changing color and the troubled look upon her face.
"No, I am only weary with my work and will go into the garden for a while," said Edith as she left them. She longed to be alone to calm the fear and sorrow that she felt at the guilt of Louis, whom she had hoped to save and whom she now believed had robbed his benefactress, thus adding sin to his ingratitude. Remembering the promise she had given to the mother, she silently resolved to beg him to confess by her entreats and to win his pardon from the kind friend he had wronged.
"How strangely she behaves," said Lady Ida. "Did you see how pale and fearful she looked? She must know something of this matter. Do you remember, aunt, my telling you that I met her late one night coming from your room?"
"Yes, Ida, but she had been to replace the jewels as I desired her to, for they are very valuable."
"I think you told me about that time that you lost the first small sum," said her niece, who seemed very anxious to discover the thief. "I wonder," continued she, as if thinking aloud, "where she has procured the money she so freely gives away? Do you provide her with it, Arthur?"
"She has never asked me or I would most gladly give her all she could dispose of. But why do you ask such curious questions, Cousin Ida?" he replied, turning from Mary Villiars, over whose embroidery frame he had been leaning. "One would think," he added with a laugh, "that you suspected Edith of my mother's loss."
"And why not, Arthur? How can I help suspecting when I see so many things that lead me to believe them true? Nay, Amy, do not look so dreadfully indignant. I have not charged her with it, and for your sake will not tell my doubts."
"But hint at them, Cousin Ida, and I had far rather you spoke out frankly and told what you think, though all that you or anyone may say can never shake my faith in Edith's truth. I should as soon suspect you of an evil deed as one who is too pure and good to dream of ingratitude and sin like this," said Amy warmly.
And Lord Percy never thought her half so fair as now, while she defended one whom he already loved and honored with a deeper faith than even hers, and he resolved to take no rest till Edith was proved innocent of Lady Ida's most ungenerous suspicion. "Should you recognize the notes again? If so, they might be traced," he said, turning to Lady Hamilton.
"I do not remember the various numbers, though most of them were small, I think, but on all of them I placed a private mark, thinking by this means I should discover them again."
"What was the mark?" asked Lady Ida eagerly, as an evil thought darted through her mind, and she turned from Lord Percy's glance to hide the sudden joy that glittered in her eyes.
"A small cross in the lower corner, where it would be least observed," replied her aunt.
"Amy, dear, lend me the key to your drawing box a moment," said Lady Ida, rising, with a strange glow on her cheek, adding as she turned to leave the room, "I am going to do what may seem a very dishonorable thing, but I cannot rest in peace while I fear I am wronging Edith by suspicions that I cannot banish. If innocent, she will readily forgive me. If not, I shall have served my aunt."
She left them wondering what her sudden purpose might be and waiting her return in silence. Some time passed, and then she slowly entered, looking pale and troubled, though her dark eyes gleamed with a look of triumph, which she strove in vain to hide. Lady Ida was a good actress, but she could not still the sinful joy and exultation that she felt so deeply in her jealous heart.
"How changed you are. Oh, what has happened, Ida?" cried Amy as her cousin looked sadly at her.
"Do you recognize this?" said Lady Ida as she placed a bank note before her aunt, with a dark smile on her lips.
"I do. The mark is here. Oh, Ida, where did you discover it?" said Lady Hamilton, looking anxiously into her niece's face.
"In Edith's desk," she answered as she raised her voice and fixed eyes upon Lord Percy's face. He started and the color vanished from his cheek, but he was silent and looked earnestly at Lady Hamilton, who sat as if bewildered with the evidence of Edith's guilt before her.
Amy hid her tears on her brother's shoulder, and gentle Mary Villiars tried to comfort her in vain.
"How did you find it, and why should you think it there, Ida?" asked young Hamilton, while his cheek grew pale with wondering sorrow at the sad discovery.
"I cannot tell what urged me on, but I could not rest till I was sure. Edith's sudden means of gaining money, which she never speaks of; her evident fear and confusion when the theft was spoken of; and my remembrance of her midnight wanderings to my aunt's private room and the notes that disappeared soon after, these things came suddenly before me; and while I feared to find them true, I felt it was my duty to save her from all further sin and my aunt from further loss. I knew the key of Amy's box would fit her desk, for she has used it when her own was lost. Thus I opened it, and in the secret drawer lay this marked note with several others and, grieved and angry as I feel at this deceit, I pity her and will do all I can to save her from exposure, if my aunt thinks best." Lady Ida spoke in a low, sad tone and placed her handkerchief before her tearless eyes.
"This is very dreadful," said Lady Hamilton at last, "to be so bitterly deceived in one whom we have loved and cherished from a child, one whom we thought so innocent and true. What is my duty in this case? I have said I would send out the guilty one without my pardon but, sinful as she is, I cannot treat our gentle Edith with severity like this."
"But will you let your love for her blind you to her fault, if she can repay your care with ingratitude like this? I think no punishment you can inflict too great. If she is pardoned now and should remain, our confidence in her is gone, and we shall still suspect and doubt her, and she will be unhappy here where her sin is so well known. Do you not agree with me, my lord," said Lady Ida, "that it is best for her to go?" She turned to Lord Percy with malicious pleasure in her eye at the pain she knew her words would give.
"I cannot doubt her yet," he answered calmly. "There is some mystery, which she doubtless will explain. Till then, it is a sin to blame even in our thoughts one who ever has been so self-denying and so true."
"I fear you would not be so merciful, my lord, were not the culprit young and pretty," said Lady Ida with a meaning smile.
"Were she the poorest servant in this household, I should fear to judge too harshly one whom youth and kind heart might have led astray," he answered, while his dark eyes shone. "Who among us, high and noble though we are, is so wise and sinless that we may judge the erring without mercy and the tenderest pity for the weakness we too might have had, had we been tempted in our poverty like them? I will not doubt till I must, and then I fear my faith in purity and truth will pass away forever."
"Thank you for this trust in one I love so well," cried Amy through her tears. "We will not deem her guilty till she shall be here to defend her innocence and prove how false all our suspicions are. Go seek her in the garden, Arthur. I cannot rest while such sad doubts of her are in our minds."
"She is not in the garden, Lady Amy, for I saw her leave the park not long ago, and by the basket in her hand, knew well that some kind deed of charity or love had called her forth," said Lord Percy, turning from the window where he had stood so long, and Lady Ida bit her lip in anger at this unconscious pose of silent watchfulness over Edith.
"We will not seek her now," said Arthur kindly. "Let her happiness, if she possess any, still be undisturbed till she returns, and then, when we are calmer, we will ask her to explain her seeming guilt. Come to your room, dear Amy. Your warm heart is well-nigh broken by this loss of confidence in one you love so well. Cousin Mary will come with us, and we soon will cheer you up." So saying, he led his weeping sister tenderly away. Lord Percy wandered on the balcony; Lady Hamilton retired to her chamber to gather strength for the task so hard to be performed; and Lady Ida, wit
h the dark, exulting smile upon her face, sat in the lonely room, while bitter thoughts stirred in her proud, revengeful heart.
The long hours passed away, the sun went down, twilight gathered fast, and still Lord Percy paced the balcony and watched with longing eyes for the light form that did not come.
Amy and her brother joined Lady Ida and sadly spoke of the great sorrow Edith gave them. Lady Hamilton left her chamber with a calm, stern face and a firm resolve to do what she considered was her duty and, if Edith had so cruelly deceived her, to punish her ingratitude by banishment from the home that she no longer merited. Lady Ida, by every argument in her power, strengthened her aunt's intention and urged her to forget past kindness and treat Edith as she had deserved.
Twilight deepened into evening, and still Edith did not come. Amy wept in silence, her mother grew more anxious, and even Lady Ida feared some harm, while Arthur went to question the servants as to where she went. Lord Percy stole silently away to find her.
The lights shone brightly through the large and richly furnished room, and the night wind rustled softly in the crimson curtains as it floated by, bringing perfume from the sleeping flowers below. Lady Hamilton sat in her old, carved chair, while Amy, with the tears still in her gentle eyes, sat on the cushion at her feet. Lady Ida, with a troubled look upon her proud face, wandered restlessly from window to window and begged Arthur to follow his friend and find Edith. But he was listening to Mary Villiars' low, sweet voice and looking in her lovely face. Trusting all to Percy, he still sat where he was happiest.
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