At length Lord Percy entered, saying in reply to their eager questions, "I met Miss Adelon hastening home. She has been detained by sickness at the cottage where she was and will join you immediately. She is speaking a few words to Louis."
He turned to leave the room, when Lady Hamilton detained him, saying, "Do not go, my lord. I need your counsel and advice in this sad affair. Let me entreat you to remain."
"I will obey most gladly if I can serve you, madam, but I feared so many witnesses might grieve and trouble Miss Adelon," replied Lord Percy. Yielding to Lady Hamilton's repeated request, he stayed and, leaning on the high back of her chair, looked silently toward the door.
A light step sounded in the hall, and Edith entered. Her face was very pale, and some deep sorrow seemed to lie upon her heart, for traces of tears were on her cheek. Still, no thoughts of shame or fear caused her clear, soft eyes to fall as she met the sad looks fixed upon her as she stood before Lady Hamilton, saying gently, "Pardon me if I have caused any uneasiness at my long absence. I could not reach home sooner."
"What has detained you, Edith, until this late hour? It is unseemly and improper for you to be wandering in the woods. Where have you been?" demanded Lady Hamilton sternly.
"By poor Theresa's dying bed," said Edith, while her meek eyes filled with tears at the coldness of her welcome home after the sad, painful task she had so silently performed.
"I trust I have not sinned past all forgiveness," she added gently as Amy kissed her cold hand tenderly and smiled upon her through her tears.
"Yes, Edith, you have sinned past my forgiveness, not for your kind deed tonight, but for a sadder thing than that," said Lady Hamilton, but her voice was milder, for gentler thoughts were stirring in her mind as she looked on the fair, pale face that seemed too beautiful and pure to hide a sinful heart.
Lady Ida whispered something in her ear, and she continued in a cold, reproachful tone. "You have forfeited my love, my confidence, and my protection, for, in return for years of warm affection and most watchful care, you have repaid me by deceit and great ingratitude. The missing money has been found. You best know where."
Edith's clear eyes did not fall, and no blush of shame tinged her pale cheek as she murmured, "Poor Louis, all is then discovered," adding earnestly aloud, "Believe me, I have tried to save you from the pain of knowing that your kindness had been undeserved and all your charitable care thus wasted. Deal mercifully with the erring and pity the youthful heart so sadly led astray."
"You do not understand me, Edith, or you are pleading strongly for yourself," said Lady Hamilton, wondering at her quiet sorrow, so unlike detected guilt. "The missing note has been discovered in your desk, and you are the sinful one."
"I!" cried Edith, starting, and she stood proudly up, while her pale cheek glowed and her dark eyes shone with indignant light. Her low voice trembled with emotion as she said, "And could you think this of me, could you for a moment doubt the reverence and love I feel for those who made the lonely orphan's life so beautiful by tenderness and care? Ah, Lady Hamilton, through all the long years I have loved and honored you, have I by word or thought deceived or wronged you? Have I not served you with all the constancy of a faithful, grateful heart, and will you now believe I could so sinfully forget the deep debt that I owe you and for stolen wealth barter the love that is the sunlight of my lonely life? I hoped you had learned to know and trust me far too well for this."
As the bright tears lay upon her cheek, she looked in silent grief to Lady Hamilton, who would not show how deeply she was moved.
She answered coldly, "I do not wish to wrong you, Edith, but I must withhold my pardon till you can clearly and entirely explain how this note with my private mark upon it should be found in your own desk. Also the means by which you procure the money you have given so freely lately. By your evident confusion and abrupt departure when I spoke of my loss this afternoon, you roused our suspicion, and now, with this discovered note as proof of your sin, we must doubt you till you can convince us of your innocence."
"I never knew till now that I had enemies," said Edith sadly, "but that note I never saw, and who has tried to wrong and injure me by placing it there I cannot tell. Who first suspected me and who discovered the lost note?"
"It was Lady Ida," said Lord Percy quickly as he saw her pale cheek burn. She turned from Edith's calm eyes fixed upon her, and in that sudden blush he read shame at some unknown wrong, and in the pity of those soft eyes, the generous forgiveness silently bestowed.
"You ask me to account for the money I have lately given. I can do this and ask your pardon for what may not meet with your approval. I have sold the sketches you have seen me drawing, and some unknown friend has generously paid me far more than my poor work was worth. With the gold thus earned I have tried to cheer and gladden lonely homes and suffering hearts. If it was wrong, forgive me, but I could not ask of those who had already done so much for me."
"How are we to know the truth of this new tale? You cannot think we shall place confidence in what you say, Edith, after once deceiving us," said Lady Ida with a scornful glance.
"You, Lady Ida, least of all have cause to doubt my truth. A promise, when once given, is held most sacredly by me, even when others break their word and by reproaches make mine harder still to keep," said Edith.
Those proud eyes fell before her own, for Lady Ida well knew how faithfully she had obeyed her and resigned the happiness she might have, and what a cruel and ungenerous return her jealous hate had made the gentle girl. Lord Percy felt it deeper still.
"I can give no proof that what I say is true," said Edith as she turned to Lady Hamilton, "for the pictures are no longer mine. I know not who has purchased them, but could I place them here before you, with the price of each upon them, you would then see how cruelly you wrong me by doubts you never felt before."
"I place no weight on what you say, for no one but yourself has seen the pictures that you speak of, and few, I think, would pay so well for simple sketches like your own. You can give no reason for such unusual generosity. Therefore, I must set aside this tale of yours and still believe that money mine," said Lady Hamilton, believing from her own fears and Ida's hints more firmly than ever in Edith's guilt.
"This is very hard," said Edith with a bitter sigh. "I have lost your confidence and love, and no one will believe me, no one trust me now. Ah, if I but knew that unknown friend and could win back the pictures, that would prove my truth and I could suffer your suspicions with a lighter heart."
"They are here," said Lord Percy suddenly, and he placed a book before her, where lay all her delicate drawings carefully preserved. "It would be cruel if I kept my little secret longer, for here are full proofs that all Miss Adelon has said is true. Nay, do not thank me," he added kindly, as he saw the tears of grateful joy falling fast. "I but gave my portion to the poor through a fitter messenger than I could ever be and won for myself these tokens of a noble heart's unfailing charity and patient labor. Here, Lady Hamilton, are the sums received for each, and I now trust your suspicions are removed."
"They are, my lord. I should have known whose generous kindness had spared Edith from the difficulties her imprudent action might have caused, and I thank you for it; yet the first and greatest difficulty still remains, and I now ask you, Edith, as you value my protection and my love, answer truly. Did you take this money?"
"I did not, and God alone can know the bitter sorrow it has caused me" was Edith's firm reply.
"Then do you know or think who is the guilty one? Do not fear to tell me. 'Tis the only way to win my pardon and lost confidence again," asked Lady Hamilton.
"Do not ask me this," cried Edith, "for I cannot answer truly and so must be still."
"Is this the obedience you have ever shown me, Edith?" said Lady Hamilton reproachfully. "I command you to reply. Do you wish to suffer for another's sin when it is in your power to prove your innocence? If you know, it is your duty to confess it and not shield the guilty
one. Speak, Edith, and obey me."
"I cannot. I have promised. Do not add another sorrow to my burden by commanding me to betray the trust I have vowed to keep. I will work unceasingly till it be repaid. I will do anything but this. My word is given and I cannot break it, even though I suffer for the sin of which I am so guiltless," said Edith. She clasped her hands and lifted her pale face imploringly to Lady Hamilton.
"Then, Edith, I can no longer give a home to one who thinks a promise given to screen guilt more binding than the gratitude of years," Lady Hamilton answered sternly. "I shall grieve most bitterly for the unhappy fate you have brought upon yourself, but I can protect no one who thus repays my care with disobedience and ingratitude like this. I trust you may find happiness in some other home. Mine I can no longer offer you."
Edith bowed her head in bitter grief and still despair as she murmured, "Then I am friendless and an outcast."
"Not while Walter Percy has a home and a mother's love to offer you," said a low voice at her side. A hand fell softly on her lowered head and, with his pure love shining in his face, he stood beside her, saying, "Lady Hamilton, forgive this seeming disrespect, but I fear you judge too hastily. Some reason stronger than we know must thus control her. Give her time to think well of the choice she makes between you and her unknown friend. Do not cast her off. Remember all the faithful care, the grateful duty she has shown. Remember her youth and her friendless lot, and let the memory of your husband's dying charge render you merciful and tender to one who nobly suffers sorrow and desolation rather than betray the trust reposed in her. Grant but a day for quiet thought and rest, for she is worn and weary with the sad scene she has witnessed and may, when calmer, see an easier path to take and a surer way to win back your lost confidence and love."
"I yield, my lord," said Lady Hamilton, whose anger died while listening to his earnest pleading, and in a kinder tone she said, "Edith, till tomorrow evening I will give you to decide, and your final answer shall then guide my conduct. Think well of the choice you make. Your secret friend may be discovered and your sacrifice were then in vain. To keep my love or the promise you have rashly made, between these you decide. Now go, and at sunset we will meet again."
Edith turned to go, but Amy's warm heart could not be restrained, and as she kissed her fondly, whispered through her tears, "Dear Edith, grant our prayer and do not leave us. I shall lose my sister and my friend when you are gone. Oh, do as we desire and all will then be well."
"I cannot, dearest Amy. Do not ask me, for you cannot know the promise I have given." Without another word, she left them.
In her silent chamber, mid the bitter tears that fell, came the memory of the kind hand falling softly on her lonely head, as if to guard her when most friendless and forsaken, and the low voice pleading tenderly for her when others doubted and condemned. And in her sorrowing heart, a deep joy came like sunlight shining on the dark cloud of her grief and made all brightness even there.
Beside Theresa in her last hour, she had renewed her promise to befriend the boy, now left an orphan like herself. That vow to the dying mother was too sacred to be broken. She silently resolved to save poor Louis from disgrace and danger by refusing to confess what she alone could tell, hoping she might be allowed to repay all that had been taken and in secret might lead back the erring boy to duty and to happiness again, for she well knew his proud heart would soon break should his disgrace be known. This she had resolved while hastening from the cottage through the lonely woods. But when the note was found, and all the sin was charged to her, and Lady Hamilton disowned and cast her off, she still, through all her sorrow and despair, was faithful to her promise, and through the sleepless night her purpose but grew stronger, and she waited calmly what should come.
CHAPTER
XIII
SAD WERE THE FACES AND heavy were the hearts that gathered in the pleasant room when morning came. Amy's bright eyes filled with tears as she looked silently at Edith's empty chair and longed to be beside her to comfort and to cheer. But Lady Hamilton had forbidden it, and Amy dared not disobey.
Nothing was said of Edith or the cause of her absence, though Amy saw Lord Percy look sadly at the deserted corner where Edith's paintings lay, as if he missed the gentle face he loved to watch so silently. Lady Ida was the only one who smiled, and though she strove to be as gay as ever, something seemed to weigh her spirits down. A restless, anxious look was on her face, as if some trial was at hand which she longed for and yet feared.
As they were sitting silently together before they separated to their different pleasant occupations, Louis, the young page who had been absent since the night before, suddenly entered. His face was pale and haggard, but a strange fire shone in his dark eyes as he stood before his mistress, saying in a voice he tried in vain to render firm, "I have come from my mother's deathbed to confess my sin and save my truest friend from the shame she is suffering for me. Miss Adelon is innocent, my lady, for 'twas I who robbed you." The poor boy hid his face in his hands and could say no more. They sat in silent wonder at this sudden discovery.
No one spoke till Lady Hamilton asked kindly, for she pitied his distress, "What could have tempted you, Louis, to wrong me thus and let another bear your guilt? Do not weep so bitterly, but tell me all. I will forgive you for your mother's sake."
"Thank heaven she can never know how sinful I am grown," sighed Louis as he dashed his tears away. With his eyes bent on the ground, he said, "I will con fess it all, my lady; she shall bear no more for me. When you first kindly gave me your protection and a home, I was as innocent as a child, but as I mingled with the servants round me, I was led astray. Young and thoughtless, I forgot the sorrow and remorse I should soon bring upon myself. I learned to gamble, and all that I possessed soon went. I owed them more. They threatened to betray me. I knew 'twould break my mother's heart and, too proud to beg, I was weak enough to steal. I went at night to where I knew your gold was kept. I took a little and was replacing the rest when Miss Adelon discovered me, and I confessed it all. She gently rebuked me for my ingratitude to you and bid me come to her when I was poor. I promised to obey her, but I dared not tell her all nor ask for the large sum I owed. They had me in their power. I feared disgrace more than sin, and I stole again. It was not discovered and, grown bolder, I took smaller sums and sank still deeper into trouble and distress. They tempted me again to gamble, and I soon lost all I had so sinfully obtained. At last, in my despair, I stole the notes and freed myself from them forever and made a vow to sin no more. Miss Adelon suspected me and watched. I was proud and willful, and I hated her for knowing how ungrateful I had grown and, to revenge myself, I stole a paper I had seen her shed tears over and heard her call most precious. I took it, little knowing that she was the unknown friend who sent me gifts and tried to save me. But all this I learned last night. My mother, on her dying bed, told me how, like a loving sister, she had watched above me and by silent care and unseen acts of kindness tried to keep me from temptation and from sin and had promised to befriend me, through grief or joy, till I should need her care no longer. And my mother's last words were a blessing on the friend who had cheered her lonely life with tenderness and love. Then in my heart I silently resolved to tell you all and by my own confession save Miss Adelon from further sorrow. I have kept my word. You know all now. Oh, my lady, pity and forgive me." Overcome with shame and grief, he knelt before Lady Hamilton and wept bitterly.
"My poor boy, I do forgive you, led astray by others whom you trusted. 'Tis an easy thing to sin. Your youth and your repentance have won my pardon for what might have caused great pain and sorrow. But now, tell me, Louis, how you discovered that Miss Adelon had been suspected of your theft. I have told no one save these present. How then did you know we doubted her integrity and truth?"
"Had I not so deeply injured her already, I could not answer this, my lady, but I must to prove her innocence, though it will grieve and trouble you," said Louis as he rose and fixed his dark eyes full
on Lady Ida's face, which suddenly grew pale, while a deadly fear shot through her heart.
"When they told me yesterday that my mother was so ill," continued the boy, "I hastened to find Miss Adelon, knowing that no one could cheer and comfort her last hours so well. As I approached her room, I saw Lady Ida, with a strange smile on her face, enter it. I stole silently along and, looking through the half-closed door, saw her open the desk and examine all that was there. At last, she took a bank note from the drawer and made some mark upon it, saying as she did so, 'This will ruin her, and then I shall be freed from one I hate.'"
"It's false," cried Lady Ida, who had sat as if spellbound to her seat. "How dare you charge me with a deed like that!" She turned her flashing eyes upon the boy.
Louis, looking proudly in her face, replied, "It is true, and here is the paper where you tried the mark before you placed it on the note. It is a little cross. I took it from the table when you had gone."
He laid the paper before Lady Hamilton, who said sternly, while her face grew deathly pale, "These words are your writing, Ida, and the mark the same upon the note. Why have you done this shameful deed to injure one who never harmed you?"
"Because I hated her," cried Lady Ida wildly as she rushed from the room.
"Edith is innocent. Thank heaven for that," said Amy when the first moment of wondering sorrow passed.
"Yes, Amy, and shall be nobly rewarded for all she has suffered by our warmest reunion and love. You are forgiven, Louis. You may go," said Lady Hamilton sadly, for her niece's most dishonorable action had deeply wounded her.
The Inheritance Page 9