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6000219198 




THE DUCHESS 

OF 

EOSEMARY LANE 



THE DUCHESS 



OF 



EOSEMAEY LANE 



a KobeU 



BY 



B. L. FAEJEON, 



AUTHOR OP 

* 6RIF; '' *'BLADB-o'-&KA8S ; " " JOSHUA MABYKL; " " AT THS SI&H OF THB 8ILTBB 
BLAeOH;" " AV IBLAKD PBABL; " '* SHADOWS OH THB SVOW," BTO. 



IN THREE VOLUMES. 
VOL. III. 



LONDON : 
TINSLEY BROTHERS, 8, CATHERINE ST., STRAND. 

1876. 

[J II right* qf Translation and JReproduetion are Reserved.} 



SI . d . Lc^H. t 



PRINTBD BY TAYOB AND CO., 
LITTLE QUEEN 6TKEET, LINCOLN'S INN FIELDS. 



CONTENTS. 



PAET THE SECOND.— THE WOMAN. 

CHAP. PAGB 

XXI. A FOBTRAIT, WITH PICTTJBBS ABOUND IT . .1 

XXn. LINKS IK THE CHAIN 31 

XXni. FATHEB AND SON 62 

XXiy. MBS. LENOIB 87 

XXY. SETH DTJMBBIOK BESOLYES TJFON HIS COTJBSE OF 

ACTION 126 

XXVI. ON THE WATCH 14gf 

XXVII. SETH DTTMBBICE FAYS A VISIT TO MB. TEMFLE . 156 

XXVlll. BICHABDS, THE CONFIDENTIAL MAN . . . 174 

xxix. stabtling disooyebies 193 

xxx. the flight of the duchess .... 219 
xxxi. "waiting fob the light to shine upon my 

soul!" 229 

XXXU. ITEHESIS 248 



$att lift Seconti 



THE WOMAN 



THE 



DUCHESS OF ROSEMAKY LANE 



CHAPTEE XXI. 

A POETRAIT, WITH PICTURES ABOUND IT. 

Ceetain pictures here present themselves 
in the shape of a medallion. 

In the centre is the portrait of a beau- 
tiful girl-woman, as tall to many a man 
with an eye for beauty as Eosalind was 
to Orlando ; with limbs perfectly moulded ; 
with white and shapely hands ; with flaxen 
wavy hair and blue eyes tempered by a shade 
of silver grey; with teeth that are almost 

VOL. in. B 



2 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

transparent in their pearliness, and in whose 
fair face youth's roses are blooming. This 
is the Duchess of Eosemary Lane, in the 
springtime of her life. 

Around the portrait of this girl-woman 
are certain others, associated with her by 
sympathetic links, not all of which are in 
active play or in harmony with her being. 

The picture of one in whose cheeks, 
although she is but little over twenty years of 
age, no roses are blooming. Her cheeks are 
sallow, and wanting in flesh, her limbs are 
thin and ungraceful, her long black hair 
has not a wave in it, her hands are large 
and coarse from too much work. But her 
eyes are beautiful, and have in them the 
almost pathetic light which is frequently 
seen in the eyes of a faithful dog. This is 
Sally, grown to womanhood. 

The picture of a working man, with large 
features, overhanging forehead, and great 
grey eyes, all out of harmony with one 
another. His hands are hard and homy, 



The Woman. 



his chin is unshayen, and his hair is almost 
white. This is Seth Dumbrick, going down 
the hill of life. 

The picture of a woman, working in an 
attic in a poor neighbourhood, within a 
mile of Eosemary Lane. Her fingers are 
long and supple, streaks of sUver are in her 
hair, and she has *' quite a genteel figure, '^ 
according to the dictum of her neighbours, 
who are led to that opinion by the circum- 
stance of the woman being thin and grace- 
ful. She is cunning with the needle, as 
the saying is, but not so cunning as to be 
able by its aid to butter her bread at every 
meal ; therefore, very often she eats it dry. 
She is not contented ; she is not resigned ; 
but she does not openly repine. She is merely 
passive. If the fire and enthusiasm of life 
are not dead within her soul, she, by the 
exercise of a hidden force, keeps all traces 
of it from the eye of man; if she has 
dreams, no human being shares them with 
her, or knows of them. She speaks in a 

B 2 



4 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

calm even tone, and her voice is low and 
sweet, but if it expresses feeling or passion, 
the expression springs from a quality be- 
longing to itself, and not from the revealed 
emotions of the speaker. She works hard 
from morning till night in a dull, listless 
fashion, performing her task conscientiously, 
and receiving at the end of the week, with- 
out thanks or murmurs, the pitiful payment 
for so many thousands of yards of stitches 
from the hands of a man who lives in a great 
house in Lancaster Gate and keeps a 
score of servants, and a dozen horses in his 
town stables. This man is a contractor, and 
he fattens on misery. He will undertake 
to clothe twenty thousand men in a month, 
and patient weak-eyed women who can 
scarcely get shoes to their feet are working 
for him, upon starvation wages, through 
the weary watches of the night. From 
their poverty and misery comes the where- 
withal to pay for his wine and his horses and 
his fine linen. He was not bom to riches ; 



The Woman. 



in his earlier years he experienced severe 
hardships, and frequently had to live on a 
crust. Those times are gone, never to re- 
turn, and, strange to say, he has, in his pre- 
sent high state, no feeling of compassion for 
his once comrades who are suflfering as he 
suflFered, and who cannot escape from their 
bondage. Then he was glad to eat his 
bread and meat, when he could get it, 
with the help of a pocket-knife and his fin- 
gers ; now he can dine ofi' gold plate if he 
chooses. There is a well-known saying 
that there is a tide in the affairs of man, 
which taken at the flood, leads on to for- 
tune. It is a popular fallacy. Such a tide, 
with such a golden prize in its flood, 
comes to not one man in a thousand, but it 
came to the contractor for whom this wo- 
man works, and he took it at its flood. He 
worked his way from small contracts to 
large, from large to larger. Having been 
ground down himself when he was a young 
man, his sole aim in the execution of his 



6 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

contracts was to grind others down, so that 
his margin of profit would be broader. It 
was a tu quoque argument, and if it be not 
considered justifiable, he could adduce an- 
other : it was the truest political economy. 
Buy in the cheapest market. And if you 
can by any means in your power, — by 
any system of grinding-down, by any exer- 
cise of terrorism over helpless people who, 
being unable without your aid to obtain 
half a loaf in payment for their labour, 
snatch at the quarter of a loaf you hold out 
to them (being from necessity compelled to 
keep some life in their bodies) — if you can 
by any of these means cheapen still further 
the cheapest market, do so. Success will 
attend you, and the world, worshipping 
success, Mrill look on and approve. An 
article is only worth what it will fetch in 
the market, and labour is worth no more 
than it receives. Such, for instance, as the 
labour of this needlewoman, who works for 
sixteen hours out of the twenty-four, and 



The Woman. 



cannot get butter for her bread. Meantime, 
while she, the type of a class, labours and 
starves, the contractor, out of her weary- 
stitches, shall die worth a plum, and a 
costly tombstone shall record his virtues. 
He pays regularly, to be sure, but you must 
not defraud him of a stitch. He gives the 
women constant employment, for in ad- 
dition to being a Government contractor, 
he is a large exporter of ready-made cloth- 
ing. She has worked for him for twelve 
years. Presenting herself one morning 
in answer to an advertisement for needle- 
women, in company with a hundred other 
females who had labour to sell and no bread 
to eat, he happened to pass through the 
ofl&ce when her turn came to be called. Al- 
though she had been one of the earliest 
arrivals among the crowd of anxious appU- 
cants, she was the last of them all. Not 
having the strength to push her way to 
the front, she had been hustled to the rear, 
and bore the unfair treatment without a 



8 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 



murmur. It was the way of the world. 
The weakest to the wall. 

*^ Name ? " said the clerk. 

" Mrs. Lenoir." 

The contractor paused at the desk by the 
side of his clerk, and looked at the appli- 
cant in a careless way, perhaps attracted to 
her because her voice was softer than he 
was accustomed to hear from his work- 
people. 

*^ French ? " inquired the clerk. 

" Yes, it is a French name." 

" Yourself, I mean," said the clerk testily. 
"Are you French?" 

" I am an English lady." 

" Eh ? " cried the contractor, in a harsh 
tone. 

" I beg your pardon. I am an English 
woman." 

"0," said the contractor, somewhat molli- 
fied. 

" Married ? " pursued the clerk, glancing 
at Mrs. Lenoir's left hand. 



The Woman. 



" My husband " pausing, and gazing 

around uneasily. 

^^ Your husband — " prompted the clerk. 

" Is dead." 

" Children ? '' 

A quivering of the lips, which grew sud- 
denly white. This, however, was not appa- 
rent to the clerk, for Mrs. Lenoir wore a 
veil, and did not raise it. 

" Children ? " repeated the clerk. 

'^ I have none." 

" References? " 

She paused before she replied, and then 
slowly said. 

"I was not aware that references were 
necessary." 

To the clerk's surprise the contractor 
took up the burden of the inquiry. 

'^ We are very particular," he said, with a 
frown, " about the character of the persons 
we employ, and references, therefore, are 
necessary, very necessary." 

" I did not know," said Mrs. Lenoir, in 



lO The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

so low a tone that the words scarcely- 
reached their ears ; and turned to depart, 

"Stop a moment," said the contractor; 
" what did you come here for ? " 

" For work," with a motion of the 
hands, deprecating the question as unne- 
cessary. 

" You want it ? " 

" Else I should not be here." 

It by no means displeased the contractor 
that this woman, suing to him for work, 
should unconsciously have adopted in her 
last reply an air of haughtiness. 

" You want work badly, I infer ? " 

" I want it badly." 

" You have applied elsewhere ? " 

"I have." 

" Unsuccessfully ? " 

" Unsuccessfully/^ 

*fFrom what cause ? " 

" I do not know." 

" You have no other means of support ? '^ 

" None." 



The Woman. ii 



" If you are unsuccessful in this applica- 
tion, what will you do ?" 

Mrs. Lenoir did not reply to this question. 
Had the contractor known what was in the 
woman's mind, he would have been startled 
out of his propriety. She had been in Lon- 
don for nearly six months, and although 
she had been indefatigable in her endea- 
vours, had not succeeded in obtaining a day's 
work. All her resources were exhausted, 
and she saw nothing but starvation before 
her. She was wearied and sick with trying, 
and she pined for rest or work. She must ob- 
tain either the one or the other. A vague 
fear oppressed her that if she were unsuccess- 
ful in this application she would be com- 
pelled, when the night came, to walk to the 
river, and gaze upon the restful waters. Then 
the end would come ; she felt that she had 
not strength to resist it. 

The contractor resumed his questioning ; 
it was a kind of angling he seemed to enjoy. 

*^ Have you no friends ? 



>^ 



12 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane, 

" No." 

" Kelatives ? " 

^' No/' 

" Money ? " 

" No/' 

"Toil are alone in the world." 

" I am alone in the world." 

" Then if I employ you, I should be your 
only friend ? " 

" I suppose so." 

"Asa rule," proceeded the contractor, 
" we do not employ ladies in this establish- 
ment, which gives employment to how 

n\any persons do I give employment to, Mr. 
Williams ? " addressing the clerk. 

' " There are eleven hundred and seventy- 
two names upon the books, sir." 

The hard taskmaster nodded his head 
with exceeding satisfaction. 

" I provide bread for eleven hundred and 
seventy-two persons, and by to-morrow this 
number will be increased by two hundred. 
I have given employment to over two thou- 



The Woman. 13 



sand persons at one time, I believe, Mr. 
WUliams ? '' 

^^ You have, sir." 

^^ And shall do so again, I have no doubt, 
before long. To repeat, I do not employ 
ladies in this establishment. Common girls 
and women are good enough for me — and 
bad enough. For there is absolutely no 
gratitude to be found among the poorer 
classes, absolutely no gratitude ; not a par- 
ticle." 

This was said with so distinct an asser- 
tion of never having belonged to the work- 
ing classes, and of their small capacity for 
good and their large capacity for evil, that 
it would have been remarkable were it not 
common. There is no greater autoctat than 
the democrat when he rises to power. 
There is no stronger despiser of the poor 
than the poor man when he rises to wealth. 

" I shall be grateful if you will give me 
employment," said Mrs. Lenoir. 

" Tou agree with me in what I say ? " 



14 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

" Certainly, sir," 

It was a sure truth that her mind was a 
blank as to the value of his words, and that 
she said she agreed with him from a kind 
of instinct that by doing so her interest 
would be better served. 

"And you are a lady," he said pom- 
pously. 

" I ask your pardon," she said, faltering, 
" the word slipped from me." 

"What you may have been has nothing 
to do with what you are. You are not a 
lady now, you know." 

" I know, sir." 

" Lenoir is not an English name, and that 
is why Mr, Williams asked if you were 
French. I keep a strict record of the ante- 
cedents of all the persons I employ, so far as 
I am able to obtain them. It is my system, 
and that is the reason," he said, graciously 
explaining, "of so many questions being 
asked. I have a gift in my power to bestow 
— employment — and only the deserving 



The Woman. 15 



should receive it. I have been deceived 
frequently, but it is not the fault of the 
system that the poorer classes are given to 
falsehood. The record has proved valuable, 
in instances — valuable to the police, who, 
through my books, which are always open 
to ,them, have traced persons who were 
wanted for crimes, and who have imposed 
upon me by obtaining employment at this 
establishment. The last remarkable case 
was that of a woman who was wanted for 
child-murder. Correct me if I am wrong, 
Mr, Williams.'' 

"You are stating the exact facts, sir." 
"I went to the trial. The wretched 
woman, who was sentenced to death, had 
nothing to say in her defence, absolutely 
nothing, except that she had been betrayed 
and deserted, and that she had committed 
the act in a fit of distraction. Betrayed 
and deserted ! " he exclaimed harshly, add- 
ing still another stone to the many he had 
flung during the days of his prosperity at 



1 6 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

all classes of unfortunates. "My judg- 
ment teaches me that it is the womat who 
betrays the man, not the man who betrays 
the woman. This woman was traced through 
her handwriting in my books, for all who 
work for me are expected to sign their 
names. You have been well educated, 
doubtless." 

Mrs. Lenoir gave a silent assent, and the 
contractor waved his hand with a motion 
which expressed, " I will not reproach you 
because you have been well educated, and 
have come down in the world." As he 
waved his hand, he was struck by the cir- 
cumstance that while he was airing his views 
to Mrs. Lenoir, she had kept her veil down, 
and he said stiffly, 

^^ It is usual for persons applying for em- 
ployment, to come unveiled." 

Mrs. Lenoir raised her veil, and disclosed 
a face inexpressibly sad, and which in years 
gone by had been surpassingly beautiful. 
Deathly pale as she was — but this may have 



The Woman. 17 



been produced by a recent emotion — traces 
of rare beauty still remained, and signs of 
refinement and delicacy were clearly de- 
picted upon the face revealed to the two 
men in the dingy office. Even Mr. Wil- 
liams, who had worked at a desk for forty 
years, and was not given to sentiment, was 
ready to admit that this was an interesting 
experience. 

" Without husband, children, friends, or 
money," said the contractor, betraying in 
his slightly altered tone some newly-born 
feeling of deference for the applicant. " I 
will give you employment. Mr. Williams, 
I will take the responsibility of this case 
upon myself. Mrs. Lenoir can sign the 
book." 

He watched the tremulous signing of the 
name, Louise Lenoir, and noted the whiteness 
of the hand that wrote it, with undisguised 
curiosity, and then Mrs. Lenoir, receiving 
her order for so many yards of material, took 

VOL. III. c 



bcr dcfoitiiie. Fiqiii that dsr it beeame 
in some waqr anumdastawrding th&t whaiteTar 
dmigcs wiote made from time to* time in tbe 
nmnber of wcaiipeiDfle en Idie establishmeiit. 
Mi& Lencor s sariccs woe ahnxs to W i^ 
tniied. For twdlre jeais had she leen em- 
plfljred Irjr tbe finiLp and had been fi?«ind 
Cdllifol and attentiTe to her dnties^ tbe per- 
finianee of wbidi proTided bto- with the 
barest sobesstenee. The eontritetof^. diums 
tfaoae jear^ neier omitted to addreiss a few 
woirds to bo* if be bappaied to see ber in 
Mr. WiQiams s dingy office. Once she wa^ 
scky and unable to wc^ and this coming 
to bis eara^ be sent her p^OTidcsLS ;iiid a 
small ffom of monej. What sympitbetie 
chad in bis nature Mi& Lenoir L&d toiiefieii 
waa a mystery wbieb be did not^ per&i&p^ 
coold not, lercaL It may baxe pleased him 
Aat she, a la^^ as be was a^isfied in bis 
mind she wai^ sboald be depaddent upon 
him for sobsistenceL He made nse of her 
oeeaacnally at bis dinner-parties at Lancas^ 



The Woman. 19 



ter Gate — for this once common man enter- 
tained the magnates of the land — when some 
phase of social politics was being discussed, 
referring to the circumstance that among his 
workpeople was a lady who earned probably 
twelve shillings a week, and whose beauty 
and education would in her earlier days have 
fitted her for a duke's establishment. 

She sits now in her poorly-furnished attic, 
stitching steadily through the hours. It is 
not contractor's work upon which her fingers 
are busy. She is finishing a girl's dress, 
and appears to take more than ordinary 
interest in her work. It is twelve o'clock 
at night before the last stitches are put in. 
She sets aside her needle and thread, and 
spreading the dress upon her bed, gazes 
upon it in silence for many minutes, stand- 
ing with her thin white fingers interlaced 
before her. Once or twice she pats it softly 
as though it contained a living form, and 
once she kneels by the bed, and buries her 
face in the soft folds of the dress, kissing it, 

c 2 



20 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

and shedding quiet tears upon it. Presently 
she rises with a sigh, and folding the dress 
over her arm, steps softly downstairs. The 
house is still and quiet ; not a soul but her- 
self is stirring. She pauses at a door on the 
second landing, and listens, hearing no 
sound. 

" May I come in ? " she whispers. 

There is no reply, and she turns the 
handle of the door. 

" Oh, who is there ? " cries a frightened 
voice in the dark. 

^* It is only I, Lizzie," replies Mrs. 
Lenoir; " I have finished your dress." 

The female leaps from the bed with an 
exclamation of delight, and quickly lights 
a candle. Then it is seen that the room is 
but slightly better furnished than that of 
Mrs. Lenoir, and that its female occupant is 
young and fair. 

*^I left my door unlocked," says the 
girl, *^ because you said the dress would 
be finished some time to-night. I thought 




The Woman. i\ 



you would bring it in. How good of you, 
Mrs. Lenoir ! " 

A graceful figure has Lizzie, and 
bright and full of joy are the eyes 
which gaze upon the dress. It is a silver- 
grey barege, soft and pretty, with ribbons 
and bits of lace and everything else about 
it that art and fancy can devise to render it 
attractive. Early to-morrow morning Lizzie 
starts for an excursion into the country — an 
excursion lasting from morning to night — 
and as Some One who is constantly in 
Lizzie's thoughts is to be there, she has a 
very particular desire to appear to the best 
advantage. 

" How good of you, Mrs. Lenoir ! " she 
repeats ; ^^ may I try it on ? " 

^^ Yes, Lizzie, if you are not too sleepy." 

Lizzie laughs blithely. Too sleepy for 
such a task ! The idea ! At her age, and 
with such love in her heart for Some One 
who is at this very moment thinking of 
her! 



ir 



k. 



a&d pdCs in c-^zt \asst^ azd szkc-c^ it dure. 



koKif in die gtiaPw The dec^itiEd gid 



^ !Xo one in die ^odd can niiaike a dresB 
like TOO. Mis. Lenoir ! *^ 

A sngular contrast are these two females^ 
who br their ages might be mother and 
dang^iter: but th^e is leally no kin^iip 
between them. The girl so growing, so full 
of happiness; the woman so sombre, so 
fiang^ with sadnessL The girl^ all sparkle 
and animati<Hi ; the woman with not a smile 
i^cm her &ce. 

" It fits you p«feedT. linii?.** 

"It^s die loTeKest^ lovi2lit?«sit d¥^>$$ that 
erer was seen ! How can I thank you ^^' 

If passion found a place in 3Ar$^ Lenoir's 
breast, it found none in her face. 

^^ I want no thanks, liizie; it was a plea* 
sore to me to make the dress for tou. T^f 



The Woman. 23 



me sit by your bedside a little — in the dark 
Take off the dress ; I am glad you lik^ 
it — there, that will do. Now, jump into 
bed. You have to get up early in the 
morning." 

She arranges the dress over the back of a 
chair, and blowing out the light, sits by the 
bed in darkness. 

^ ^ I don't think I shall sleep any more to- 
night, Mrs. Lenoir.^' 

" Yes, you will, Lizzie. Sleep comes to 
the young and happy." 

"You speak so sadly — but it is your 
way." 

" Yes, Lizzie, it is my way." 

"You don't sleep well yourself, Mrs. 
Lenoir." 

" Not always." 

" It must be dreadful not to be able to 
sleep. One has such happy dreams. Do 
not you ? " 

" I dream but seldom, Lizzie ; and when 
I do, I wake up with the prayer that I had 



24 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 



died in mj sleep. When I was as young as 
yon, I used to liaye liappy dreams, bnt they 
neyer came tme." 

^^ I wish I could do something to make 
you feel less sorrowful/' says Lizzie, oTer- 
flowing with pity and gratitude. 

^^ You can do nothing, Lizzie. When you 

are married " 

"O Mrs. Lenoir!" 

^^ As I hope you will be soon, I will make 
you a prettier dress than this." 

** It's not possible — nothing eotM be 
prettier." 

"Charles — your lover, Lizzie — ^is not 
much older than you." 

" Oh, yes, he is ; ever so much ! I am 
nearly nineteen ; he is twenty-three." 
" He truly loves you, Lizzie ?" 
" Truly, truly. I think no one ever loved 
as much. Am I not a fortunate girl I 

When I am workiog you don't mind my 

rattling on ? " 

" Say what is in your heart, Lizzie.' 



The Womafi. 25 



^' When I am at work, I whisper to 
myself, ' Charlie ! Charlie ! ' and I talk to 
him just as though he was next to me. And 
Charlie tells me he does the same by me — 
so that we're always together. The moon is 
shining through the window, Mrs. Lenoir. 
Is it a watery moon ? Go and see if it is 
sure to be fine to-morrow." 

Mrs. Lenoir goes to the window, and 
draws the curtain aside. A shudder passes 
over her as she sees how bright and clear 
and beautiful the night is. 

" Is it a fine night, Mrs. Lenoir ? " 

'' Clear and bright, Lizzie. There is no 
sign of rain. To-morrow wiU be a lovely 
day." 

" I am so happy ! " 

Mrs. Lenoir resumes her seat by the 
bedside. 

*^Do not take any notice of me, Lizzie. 
I will sit here quite quietly, and when you 
are asleep, I will go to my room.'" 

So long a silence follows — or it seems so 



26 The Duchess of Rosefnary Lane. 



long to the happy girl — that she falls into a 
doze, to be but partially aroused by Mrs. 
Lenoir*s voice, calling very softly, 

" Lizzie ! '' 

'^ Yes, Charlie ! " Thus betraying her- 
self. 

"It is not Charlie; it is I, Mrs. Le- 



noir." 



" Oh, I beg your pardon, Mrs. Lenoir. 
What a foolish girl you must think me — and 
how ungrateful ! " 

"TTot at ail, Lizzie ; it is I who am incon- 
siderate in keeping you awake. I will say 
good-night." 

"No, no," cries Lizzie, understanding 
instinctively the woman's need for sympathy, 
" don't go, or I shall think you are angry. 
Tou were going to speak to me." 

The girl raises her arm, and draws Mrs. 
Lenoir's head to her pillow. " Eemember, 
I have no mother." She presses her lips to 
Mrs. Lenoir's face, which is wet with tears. 
" Mrs. Lenoir, you have been crying." 



The Woman. 2^ 



"It is nothing, Lizzie ; I often cry when 
I am alone/* 

" But you are not alone now ; I am with 
you, and I love you." 

" It is kind of you to say so ; you are in 
the mood to love, and to believe all things 
fair and good.*' 

"And do not you believe so, Mrs. Le- 
noir ? " 

" Once I did. There was a time " 

What reminiscence was in the speaker's 
mind remained there unexpressed. "Lizzie, 
you lost your mother when you were a 
chfld." , 

" Yes." 

" How old were you when she died ? 

" Not quite five years.' 

" And you remember her ? 

" Yes." 

" With love ? 

" Oh, yes.' 

" If,*' says Mrs. Lenoir, with almost 
painful hesitation, "she had died, or you 



>9 



» 



>> 



9> 



i9 



28 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

had lost her earlier, do you think you would 

have forgotten her ? " 

" Oh, no, Mrs. Lenoir ; I should have 

always remembered her, have always loved 
her." 

^* She was kind to you Lizzie." 

^^ She loved me more than all the world." 

^*You mean," says Mrs. Lenoir, with 

fierce eagerness, " she loved as a mother 

loves, as a woman loves — as only a woman 

loves ! " 

" Mrs. Lenoir," asks Lizzie slowly, " do 

not men love as faithfully as women ? " 

" Ask your own heart. You love Charlie 

and he loves you. Which do you suppose is 

the stronger love, the most constant, the 

most likely to endure ? '' 

"I do not know," replies Lizzie, her 

sadder tone denoting that Mrs. Lenoir's 

sadness is contagious. " I do not want to 

think that Charlie's love is not as strong as 

mine, and yet — and yet — I do not believe 

he can love me as much as I love him." 



The Woman. 29 



« It need not distress you, Lizzie, to think 
SO ; it is in the nature of things. It is im- 
possible for a man to love with the whole 
SQul, as a woman loves — often, alas ! unhap- 
pily for her/' 

"And often, too, happily for her," re- 
monstrates Lizzie, with sudden and tender 
cheerfulness. "A moment ago I felt in- 
clined to regret the thought you put into 
my mind — that a woman's love is naturally 
stronger than a man's ; but when I think 
of it, as I am thinking now, I would not 
have it altered if I could. It is far better 
for us that it should be so. If I loved 
Charlie less, I should be less happy ; and it 
brings a sweet feeling to my heart, it makes 
me glad to think that I can give him more 
love than he can give me." 

"God forbid," says Mrs. Lenoir, "that 1 
should endeavour to shake your faith in 
Charlie. I was speaking out of the experi- 
ence of a woman with whose sad history I 




am aeqoamtedL I am tired, linie. Good 
nil^it. A baqpp J day to-moiTOw ! ^^ 

Bat Iaiiie''s fond arms ding to Mis. 
Lenoir^s neek; she is loth to 1^ her go 
without obtauung £d(«i her a maik of 
which has beoi withbdd. 
Mi& Leooir^ I hare kissed joo twenty 



4,1 



^WeU^Lixde.'' 

"^ And win kiss you Tw»ity tim^ more — 
difii^ and th<3ne, there! O Mis. Lenoir, 
will yoa not giro me one kiss ? — yon haTo 
not kissed me once ! '^ 

Mrs. Laioir g^itiy extncaites hezsdf 
from linie^s affeetionate ^^mbace. 

^^ I made a tow years a^ ULiaae, noTcr 
to press my lips to huma:n £fece until I mrt 
with one that my eyes may neTer bdudd. 
GkK)d night'' 



CHAPTEK XXII. 



LINKS IN THE CHAIN. 



Still another picture. This one on the sea, 
to give variety to the group. 

A fresh breeze is blowing, the white 
sails are full, and a noble vessel — the Blue 
Jacket, a famous clipper — is ploughing 
her way through the snow-crested waves. 
Holding on to the bulwarks, a lad, 
scarcely eighteen years of age, is gazing 
now into the billowy depths into which 
they are descending, now to the curling 
heights up and over which the ship is 
sailing. A rapture of delight dwells in his 
great spiritual eyes, and a flush rises to 
his pale and pensive face, as he gazes on the 
wonders of the deep. His heart is pulsing 



^a The Duc/uss of Rosemary Lane, 

with worship of the beantifiDLl^ and with 
his inner sight he sees what is hidden from 
many. The hreeze brings to him musical 
and tTirilling whispers ; the laughing, joyous 
waters teem with images of spiritual loreli- 



By his side, gazing also into the water's 
depths, and holding on to a rope with a 
stronger and more careless grip, stands a 
man whose years exceed two score. A 
handsome, strongly-built man, with a mole 
on his right temple which adds to rather than 
detracts from his beauty. That he is of 
a conmioner order than the lad by whose 
side he stands is clearly apparent ; yet he is 
one in whom the majority of women would 
instinctiTely take a deeper interest because 
of his riper development and the larger 
power expressed in him. His features are 
wanting in the refinement and delicacy 
which characterise his young companion, 
but they hare boldness and fulness which, 
allied with good proportion, possess a 




The Woman. 33 



special and individual attraction of their 
own. 

The young gentleman's name is Arthur 
Temple; the name of his valet is Ned 
Chester ; and the ship is ploughing her way 
to England's shores. 

What the lad sees in the restless, laugh- 
ing waters is created by his poetical nature. 
What the man sees is the issue of an actual 
experience in the past. In the lad's dreams 
there is no thread of connection: images 
of beauty appear and disappear; slowly 
form themselves, and fade as slowly away ; 
and are not repeated. In the man's, one 
face is always present, and always visible ta 
his fancy; the face of a beautiful child^ 
whose eyes rival heaven's brightest blue, 
whose cheeks are blooming with roses, 
whose head is covered with clusters of 
golden curls. 

A word of retrospect is necessary. 

The lad is the only child, by his wife, 

VOL. ni. D 



34 The Diuhess of Rosemary Lane. 

Lady Temple, of Mr. Temple, a name 
famous in the superior Law Courts of Eng- 
land, a gentleman of wealth, distinction, 
and high position in the land. From his 
birth, Arthur Temple has been the object of 
the most anxious and devoted care of his 
parents — ^the devotion marnly springing 
from the mother's breast, the anxiety from 
the father's. Not that the father was want- 
ing in love. On the contrary. As much 
love as it was in his nature to bestow, 
he bestowed upon his son. But it was not 
like the mother's love, purely unselfish; 
it was alloyed with personal ambition, and 
was consequently of a coarser grain. From 
a delicate babe, Arthur Temple grew into a 
delicate boy — so delicate that his life often 
hung upon a thread, as ordinary people 
express it, and he was not sent to a public 
school for his education. The best private 
tutors were obtained for him, and the lad 
showed an eager desire to acquire what they 
were engaged to teach. But his mental 



k 



The Woman. 35 



yigour ran ahead of his physical power, 
and the physicians ordered that his studies 
should be discontinued. " His brain is too 
wakeful," they said, ^^ his nerves too 
sensitive. The difficulty will be not to 
make him study, but to keep him from 
it." So it turned out. Free from the 
trammels of enforced study, and left to 
follow his own inclination, the lad flew to 
the books most congenial to his nature, and 
learnt from them what he most desired to 
learn. The intellectual power apparent in 
the lad delighted his father as much as 
his lack of physical strength distressed him. 
Mr. Temple's ambition was various. 
Wealth he loved for the sake of the luxury 

« 

and ease it conferred; power he coveted, 
and coveted the more as he rose, for its own 
sake, and because it placed him above his 
fellows, and gave him control over them; 
but beyond all, his chief ambition was 
to found a family, which should be famous 
in the land. To the accomplishment of this 

D 2 



36 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

end two things were necessaxy : the first, 
that he himself should become famous, and 
should amass much wealth; the second, 
that his son — his only child — should marry, 
and have children. In the first, he was 
suocessfal. It is not necessary to inquire 
by what means — whether by superior talent, 
by tact, by industry, or by force of 
patronage — he rose to power, and passed 
men in the race who at least were equal 
with himself. The fact is sufficient; he 
rose above them, and it was acknowledged 
that the highest prize in his profession 
might one day be his. Whether he 
deserved it, was another matter. This is an 
envious world. As worshippers of the suc- 
cessful and powerful are everywhere to 
be found, so are detractors, and men who 
by innuendoes throw dirt at those who 
occupy the best seats. But whatever might 
be said to his detraction by the envious 
few, he was quoted in public as a man 
of rare virtues and integrity. The public 



The Woman. 37 



prints never neglected an opportunity to 
point a moral by means of his example. 
They never tired of quoting his stainless 
life, his probity, his righteous cwiduct 
as an administrator of justice, and holding 
him forth as a practical illustration of the 
highest qualities of human nature. It 
cannot be denied that he, by his conduct, 
contributed to this result. There was 
manifest in him a distinct assertion to the 
possession of spotless honour and blame- 
lessness ; so pure a man was he that he had 
no pity for human failings; that *^ earthly 
power doth then show likest God's when 
mercy seasons justice," found no assenting 
response within his breast. Woe to the 
fallen wretch who appeared before him for 
judgment; he gave them their deservings, 
with no compassionate regard of the 
tangled, dirt-stained roads they had been 
compelled to travel. His stem manner 
said, ^^ Look upon me. Have I fallen ? 
Why, then, have you?" And in his 



38 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane, 

addresses to crimiiials when passing sen- 
tence, lie frequently embodied this in words 
— ^whereupon the world would rejoice that 
the Ififw had such an interpreter, justice 
such a champion. All other things, there- 
fore, being smooth before him, the full 
accomplishment of his dearest ambition 
hung upon the health of his only child, 
and he experienced the keenest anxiety 
in the circumstance that as the lad grew 
in years, he failed in strength. At the 
age of sixteen, Arthur Temple was a 
pale, dreamy stripling, full of fine fancies, 
and sensitive to a fault. The physicians 
spoke gravely of his condition. 

*^ There is but one chance of his attaining 
manhood," they said; ^'a complete change 
must be effected in his life. He must 
travel. Not on the Continent, or in cities 
where money can purchase the indulgences 
of existence. A long sea-voyage in a sail- 
ing vessel, to the other end of the world. 
A sojourn there of twelve or eighteen 



The Woman. 39 



months. Then home again,, with blood 
thickened, and bones well set." 

" But if he should die ! " exclaimed the 
anxious mother, distracted at the thought of 
parting with her darling. 

^^He may," replied the physicians; ^^but 
there, at all events, he has a chance of liv- 
ing. Keep him at home, and you condemn 
him to certain death." 

After this there was, of course, nothing 
to be said, and preparations were made for 
the lad's temporary exile. Arthur received 
the news with joy. It was the realisation 
of a wonderful dream. He felt like a 
knight-errant going out in search of romantic 
adventures. The glad anticipation made his 
step lighter, his manner cheerier. 

'^He is better already," said the phy- 
sicians. 

The difficulty was to find a companion 
for him. His father's professional duties 
would not permit of his leaving England ; 
his mother's health was too delicate. The 



40 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

need was supplied by the younger member 
of a family of rank and distinction, wbo, 
with his family, was going out to settle 
in the new land across the seas. Into their 
care Arthur Temple was given. Before he 
left England, his father conversed privately 
and seriously with the lad, and in some 
part made a disclosure of his cherished 
views. Arthur listened with respect and 
attention; he had a sincere regard for his 
father, although between their natures 
existed an undefinable barrier which 
prevented the perfect merging of their 
sympathies. 

"You are my one only hope," said Mr. 
Temple to his son; '^but for you, all the 
honours I have gained would be valueless 
in my eyes. Get strong, for your mother's 
sake and mine, and come home to take your 
proper position in society — a position which 
I have made for you, and which you will 
worthily sustain. You have yet to choose 
your career— it will be politics, I hope; it 



The Woman. 41 



opens out the widest field to a young man 
of wealth and talent. Before I die, I may 
see my boy in office." 

Arthur shook his head.* He had his 
dreams of the path in which he would 
choose to walk; the pen should be the 
weapon by means of which he would carve 
his way to fame. He expressed his hope, 
with a boy's timidity and bashfulness, to 
his fiather, who was too wise to fan the fire 
by a show of opposition. 

"All that is in the future,'' he said; 
^' your first care is to get strong." 

This conference between father and son 
was one of solemnity to the lad; he was 
going on a long voyage, and he and his 
father might never meet again; there was 
A thought in his mind to which he was 
impelled to give utterance. 

"Be sure of one thing, sir," he said, 
gazing steadily with his truthful eyes into 
his father's face, " whatever occurs, in 
whatever groove my life may run, I shall 



42 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

never do anything to disgrace the name of 
Temple." 

*^ My dear lad ! " murmured his father. 
" Whatever career I adopt," said the lad, 
with a heightened colour, " I solemnly 
promise always and for ever to set right 
and justice before me, and to be guided by 
their light." 

His right hand was slightly raised as he 
spoke, and he looked upwards, as though 
he were registering a vow. The words were 
the outcome of his truthful nature, and were 
a fit utterance at such a time and under such 
circumstances. 

** If I believed," continued the lad, " that 
it were possible I should ever commit an 
act which would reflect shame upon the 
name we bear, I should pray to die to-night. 
I should not be happy if I went away 
without giving you this assurance. Believe 
me, sir, I will be worthy of the trust you 
repose in me." 

Mr. Temple received this assurance with 



The Woman. 43 



averted head. He was accustomed to boyish 
outbursts from his son, but this last bore 
with it, in its more earnest tones, a deeper 
signification than usual. 

"You afford me great pleasure, Arthur," 
he said slowly ; " I am sure I shall not be 
disappointed in you. Yet you must not 
forget that, in the practical issues of life, 
sentiment must occasionally be set aside." 

I 

The lad pondered for a few moments, say- 
ing then, 

" I do not quite understand you, sir." 

Mr. Temple briefly explained his mean- 
ing. 

" Merely, my son, that the circumstances 
of life frequently call for the exercise of 
wisdom, and that we must look carefully to 
the results of our actions." 

Arthur Temple was always ready for an 
argument. 

"I do not know how I should act if 
wisdom and sentiment clashed. I have 
heard you say I am given to sentiment.'' 



44 T^he Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

'^ Yes, Arthur ; but you axe young." 
^' I hope never to alter, sir. What I 
intended fully to say was this: that if a 
matter were before me in which wisdom 
and sentiment clashed, I do not know how 
I should act. But I do know how I should 
act in a matter where wisdom and justice 
pulled different ways. I may not always 
be wise ; I should despise myself if I sus- 
pected that I should not always be just. 
Had I to choose between a wise and a just 
man, I know whose hand I should take. 
Why, sir, it enters into my love for you " 
— his arm here stole around his father's 
shoulder — ^^ that I know you to be a just 
man, incapable of a base or mean action ! 
I will follow in your footsteps ; the example 
you have set me shall not be thrown away.'' 
The conversation was then continued in 
another strain, and shortly afterwards Ar- 
thur Temple bade his parents farewell, and 
started for the New World. From the 
moment the lad placed his foot upon the 



The Woman. 45 



vessel which conveyed him from his native 
land, it seemed to him as though he were 
animated by a new life. The lassitude and 
languor which had weighed upon him with 
terrible effect were blown away by the 
fresh breezes that swept across the seas; his 
pulses beat more briskly, his blood flowed 
through his veins with fuller force. The 
pale, sickly lad whose feeble health had 
but yesterday caused his parents so much 
anxiety, became drunk with animal spirits, 
and was the life and soul of the ship. He 
had his quiet hours, when he would sit in 
happy silent communion with the spirit of 
beauty which touched every natural effect 
in air and sea with heavenly colour, which 
whispered to him in the silence of the night, 
when the stars shone peacefully on the 
waters, and in the storm, when fierce winds 
lashed the seas to fury. There was ex- 
hibited in him that combination of forces 
which is the special attribute of some highly- 
strung, sensitive natures: a wild riot of 



46 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

animal spirits which compelled him to be- 
come the noisiest and foremost in every 
noisy crew, and a calm, spiritual repose 
which demanded perfect peacefulness of 
body and soul. In the New World, he 
passed a happy time. His name and his 
father's position and reputation in the home- 
land were sufficient to ensure him a wel- 
come in every circle, and the rare qualities 
he displayed endeared him to all with whom 
he came into association. Wherever he 
travelled, he heard his father spoken of with 
honour and respect, as a just man and a 
just judge ; and this oft-repeated experience 
caused him intense pleasure. He grew 
prouder than ever of his father's good name, 
and stronger than ever in his resolve to 
emulate him. It was during this temporary 
absence from home that he met and engaged 
Ned Chester for his valet. 

Ned's career in the Australias had been 
one of adventure, and it had made him a 
Jack of all trades and master of none. He 



The Woman. 47 



had been by turns a stone-breaker — driven 
to it by sheer necessity, and not excelling 
in it — an auctioneer, a splitter of wood, a 
storekeeper, a shepherd, many times a gold- 
digger, a newspaper runner, and Heaven 
knows what besides. Had he been ordinarily 
industrious, he would most certainly have 
verified his mother's prediction that he 
would one day achieve sudden fortune — 
saying nothing of honour ; but his love of 
indolence was incurable. His slips 'twixt 
cup and lip were numerous. Having in a 
tipsy fit purchased a piece of land for a song 
at a government land sale, he found himself, 
by reason of his disinclination for work, 
compelled to dispose of it, and he sold it — 
a day too soon. Twenty-four hours after it 
passed from his hands rich deposits of gold 
were discovered in its vicinity, and the 
allotment was worth thousands of pounds. 
He sunk a shaft on a gold-lead, and having 
obtained fifty ounces of gold, "went on the 
spree" till every shilling was spent. When 



48 The LhtcJuss of Rosemary Lam. 

he returned to his diaft he found it in po6- 
session of a p^u^ of miners^ each of whom 
was Tnakfng ten ounces a day out of it He 
had by the mining hiws forfeited all daim 
to it by his desertion. This run of mis- 
fortune, as he termed it, followed him all 
through his career, and he failed to see that 
he was in any way accountable for it. 
Truth compels the further admisidon that he 
made the acquaintance of the interior of 
some colonial prisons, and that in die entire 
record of his experiences there was little 
that redounded to his credit. Strange, 
howerer, to state that in the midst of the 
lawlessness that preTaOs in all new c<Hn- 
munities, tempting to excess those whose 
passions are difficult of control, Ned Ches- 
ter's besetting sin of intemperance which 
threatened to cut short his life in the Old 
Country lessened instead of gaining in 
strength. And almost as strange is the 
fact that, with some indefinite idea that he 
would one day be called upon to play a gen- 




The Woman. 49 



Heman's part in life, he endeavoured to fit 
Mmself, by reading and in manners, for this 
shadowy framework : with so much success 
as to cause him occasionally to be sneered 
at by his equals as a "stuck-up swell," a 
species of abuse which afforded him infinite 
satisfaction. Undoubtedly, the tenderness 
with which he held in remembrance the 
beautiful child-Duchess of Kosemary Lane 
was the leading incentive to this partial re- 
formation. Her face and pretty figure were 
always before him, and constituted the ten- 
derest episode in his past life — the only 
tender one indeed, for any love he may have 
felt for his devoted mother was so alloyed 
with rank selfishness as to be utterly value- 
less. As the years rolled on, his thoughts 
travelled apace with them, and he saw the 
child-Duchess growing to womanhood — to 
beautiftd womanhood. Then began to creep 
upon him a thirst to see her, and to be with 
her — a thirst which increased in intensity the 
more he dwelt upon his wish. The cir- 
VOL. in. E 



50 The Duchess of Rosemary Zuxne. 

emnstazLce tbat kept tftffln apart was 1a> kis 
s^ise monatroua^ and a» criLd to !t0: as to 
TiTTnfleTf, For Ilb did not donbt tbat lat 
lired ia Iier mind as a&e Iired in Mel I9&fr 
waa Bia — by wiiat rrgfrt, or if by any^ mst- 
t^ced not ; aiie was bis^ and be was bias ; 
Uiey belonged to eacb. other. But by tihift 
time Fortune seemed to bave eitirdy dfr 
9»ted hfmy and be bad setlied into a firan- 
band-to-montb vagabond condition, of fife 
wiicb was destnictLTe of every cbanee of 
eroosmg tbe seas winb. a shTTTfng in his 
pocket* At tbis point of bid career cbazKce 
broxLgbt bim into commnnication nidi 
Aptbnr Temple. He bad taken service, 
nnder an as&imied name^ as a i^epherd, 
an occupation wbicb gaye fall scope to 
bis indolent babits, and lie was lying 
on tbe bills on a summer day, while 
throngb an adjacent forest of ircoi and 
silTa bazk trees, Arthur Temple was can- 
tanng, in high spirits. The subtle iuTisihle 
finks which draw lires into fatal connection 



The Woman. 51 



with one another are too strange and mys- 
terious for human comprehension. Between 
these two men, unconscious of each other's 
existence, stretched the link which was to 
bind them in one mesh thousands of mile& 
across the seas, wherefrom other links were 
stretching to draw them homewards. Ned 
Chester, lying on the hill, in gloomy ab- 
straction hitched from his pocket a conmion 
tin whistle, and began to play his sorrows 
through the keys. This one accomplish- 
ment had never deserted him ; the cheap 
and common instrument became in his hands 
a diyine medium for sweetest melody. The 
music reached the ears of Arthur Temple 
as he rode through the silent woods, and he 
reined in his horse, and listened. He was 
alone, making his way to the home station 
• of the rich squatter who employed Ned 
Chester, and the music stirred his poetic 
mind. He wove from it romantic fancies ; 
it peopled the woods with beautiful images ; 
it made the stillness eloquent. He rode on 

e2 



5 a The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

to meet it, prepared for any surprise, in the 
shape of delicate nymph or sprite, and came 
upon a shabbily-dressed man, with a fort- 
night's beard on him, playing with dirty 
coarse fingers upon the keys of a common 
tin whistle. Ned Chester ceased, and gazed 
at the new-comer. He saw that he was a 
gentleman, and he ground his teeth with 
envy; but he gave no expression to the 
sentiment. Arthur Temple opened the 
ball. 

" It u you who were playing ? " 

"Yes." 

" On that ? " eyeing the tin whistle with 
intense interest. 

"Yes; on this." 

" "Will you play again for me ? " 

" I don't mind." 

Ned placed the whistle to his lips, and 
played a simple Scotch air, improving on 
the theme with rare skill; his organ of 
love of approbation was very large. 

" Beautiful ! " said Arthur Temple. 



The Woman. 53 



"You have been taught in a good 
school." 

In the sKght laugh with which Ned 
Chester met this assertion was conveyed a 
suddenly-born reproach against society for 
having overlooked such superlative talent 
as he possessed. 

" I was taught in no school." Adding 
proudly, "What I know, I picked up 
myself." 

Arthur Temple corrected himself, "In 
the school of nature." 

" May be; 

" What are you ? 

" A shepherd — at present; 

"You have not been always a shep- 
herd." 

" Oh, no ; " with an assumption of having 
seen considerably better times and of 
moving in a much better position. 

" What makes you a shepherd, then ? 

" A man must live." 

" I beg your pardon," said Arthur, with 



99 



» 



j> 



» 



54 The Duchess of Rosemary Latie. 

a sensitive flusli. " Are you in Mr. Fitz- 
lierbert's employment ? " 

Mr. Fitzherbert was the name of the 
squatter for whose home station he was 
bound, with letters of introduction. 

" Yes/' replied Ned Chester. 

'' I have come on a visit to him. Can 
you direct me to his place ? " 

" Over the hill yonder you will see a 
wagon track. It will take you straight 
to the house." 

" Thank you," Arthur, about to depart, 
suddenly bethought himself. The musi- 
cian was poor — was a shepherd from ne- 
cessity. He took his purse from his pocket ; 
a bank-note fluttered in his fingers. 
He held it towards Ned. Under ordinary 
circumstances Ned would have had no hesi- 
tation in accepting the gratuity, but as his 
eyes met the earnest eyes of Arthur Temple, 
a happy inspiration inspired him to refuse 
it ; it was unaccountable, but it happened so. 
Ned turned his head from the temptation. 



The Woman. 55 



99 



99 



" I beg your pardon," said Artliur 
Temple, his face flushing again; "I had 
no intention of hurting your feelings. 
Good dayJ 

" Good day; 

Arthur Temple rode slowly off, with 
many a backward glance at the recum- 
bent form of the musical shepherd — 
glances of which Ned Chester was per- 
fectly cognisant, but of which he took no 
apparent notice. Before he was out of 
ear-shot, Arthur heard the tin whistle at 
work once more. 

"A genius," thought he, "and a gen- 
tleman by instinct. I am sorry I offered 
him money." 

The impression made upon him by the 
incident was powerful and durable, and he 
inwardly resolved to see the man again. 
This resolve being carried out, Ned 
Chester was not slow in turning to his 
own advantage the interest exhibited in 
him by Arthur Temple. His superior 



56 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

cunning enabled him very soon to obtain 
the particulars of the personal history of 
the young gentleman who he determined 
should become his patron. His patron 
Arthur Temple certainly did become; he 
engaged the vagabond man of the world 
as his valet at a liberal salary, and con- 
gratulated himself upon securing as his 
companion a person whose discovery and 
undoubted genius formed one of the most 
romantic episodes of his travels. It was 
fortunate for Ned that during his associa- 
tion with Arthur Temple in the colonies 
he met with no friend or acquaintance 
who might have exposed him to his 
young master. Nothing in his conduct 
betrayed him; he behaved in the most 
exemplary manner, and grew day by day 
in the goodwUl of Arthur. He took pride 
in his personal appearance, and seizing 
with avidity the advantages such a con- 
nection opened out to him, dressed care- 
fully and well, drank little, and was, to 



The Woman. 57 



all outward appearance, a most respect- 
able character. He became saving in his 
habits, also, and at the end of the nine 
months, which brought the visit of Arthur 
Temple to the colonies to an end, he was 
in possession of a sum of money larger 
than his salary ; Ned had not fought with 
the world for nothing, and his experience 
was a key which fitted many locks. 
Arthur Temple was recalled home some- 
what earlier than he anticipated. 

"If you are well," his father wrote, 
" and if your health is sufficiently esta- 
blished to come home, do so at once, my 
dear lad. Your mother and myself long 
for your society. I never cease to think 
of you, and I want the world to see and 
appreciate you as I do, though it can 
never love you as you are loved by your 
father, "Frederick Temple." 

Arthur made immediate preparations for 



5S Tkd Lhkikgss af Rjszmeofj Lasmt^ 



&2 «i£pfiztnire ; h^ nsiiraze w^as sas^il mud 
b^rn?^ szui Ills tiorr also was Iiise cob- 
ecrxLed. TIte nifws of die bLHxie jovmej 
trodblfid yed Cbescor: a£et2p£n^ ra die 
vsHD^ of It£^ engagement:, eonnectkat be^ 
tweoL Trhn sod Ardoxr eesaed wi&ai the 
Isnser qiiitted Ansizaisi. Ned Iiad ssred 
safficDent im33ieT to pay &r Iii& passage 
luane, botr lie wooLI azrcre dtoe eompaDEm- 
tirely penniLeag^ and in no poatBRi to 
obtsin a IrreiiltiMxL Hss ^^Ssstx& tiboefixe 
ir)9e noir directed to obcaminir a penrompfit 
appofntment wtdi Artimr; and to Ida 
sorpc^y after mnclL mam£iiTnng» fimid 
that lie conld hare succeeded nmciL mfse 
ea^y by a straigitr tiban by a erooked 
metbod. 

"^Catamly,"' said Arthnr; ^I ^lall be 
^bd not to port with jon ; bat I tbon^ht 
yon would bare no ni^ to leftTe Aib»- 



rt 



" It baa been my endeaTonr/* said Ned, 
f« years past» bnt I bare not bad the 



The Woman. 59 



means; and it has been my misfortune 
mitil now never to have met with a 
friend.'' 

" My father," said Arthur, " will scarcely 
be prepared for my bringing home a 
a valet, but he will not object to anything 
I do. Have you any family in Eng- 
land?'' 

" No, sir.'^ 

He endeavoured to impart a plaintive 
tone to this negative, to show how utterly 
hapless a being he was; but he failed; 
the joy of returning to England and of 
meeting the Duchess lighted up his fea- 
tures. 

" But there is some one at home," said 
Arthur, with a snule, " whom you will be 
pleased to see." 

Then Ned, with guarded enthusiasm, 
poured out his soul into the sympathetic 
ears of Arthur Temple, and spoke, but not 
by name, of the Duchess of Eosemary 
Lane, aS one whom he had loved for 



6o The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

years, and to see whom would complete 
the happiness of his life. He extolled her 
beauty, too, with sufficient fervour to 
carry conviction with it. He knew that 
these utterances made his position more 
secure, and imparted to his service a 
sentiment which was far from disagreeable 
to Arthur Temple. 

This retrospect brings us to the ship, 
the Blue Jacket, sailing for England, with 
Arthur and Ned aboard. Arthur enjoys 
every hour of the voyage. All is fair 
before him. With youth, with good health, 
with a pure mind stirred by noble desires, 
with a father awaiting him holding a high 
and honourable position in the land, the book 
of the lad's life, the first pages only of which 
are opened, is filled with glowing pictures, 
and he looks forward with calm delight 
to his arrival home. Ned is less calm. 
The ship never goes fast enough, the days 
are longer than they ought to be; he 
burns with impatience to preseift himself 



The Woman, 6i 



\ 



to the idol of his dreams. Hour by hour 
the links that bind these men, so strangely 
brought into association, to other lives in 
the old land are drawn closer and closer. 
At length the good ship arrives in port. 
Arthur is pressed to his father's breast. 

" Thank God ! " says the father, " that 
you are home and in good health." 

And he holds Arthur's hand with such 
warmth as he might have felt in his 
younger days for a woman he loved. 

Ned Chester looks around, draws a free 
fall breath, and murmurs, 

" At last ! " 



CHAPTEE XXm. 



FATHER AND SON. 



Mb. Temple celebrated the return of his 
son by a great dinner, at which a number 
of distinguished persons were present; 
later in the evening his mother held a recep- 
tion. The evening before the party Arthur 
was sitting with his parents looking over 
the list of guests, and he could not help 
being struck with their ^quality. Nearly 
every man invited was a man of mark in 
the land — ^politicians, lawyers, a few whose 
chief merit was their wealth, and some few 
also of the foremost workers in the ranks 
of art and literature. Arthur was pleased 
at the opportunity of becoming personally 
acquainted with these shining lights. 



The Woman. 63 



"You will regard this as your first in- 
troduction into society," said Mr. Temple 
to his son. ^' I shall be glad to see you 
form friendships which will bring you both 
pleasure and profit." 

It was unfortunate that, despite his affec- 
tion for his son, Mr. Temple could never 
avoid introducing into their conversations 
chance words and phrases which grated 
upon the sensitive mind of the younger 
man. The word " profit " was one of these. 
Arthur, however, made no comment upon 
this, and the rebellious expression which 
overcast his features for an instant was not 
observed by his father. 

" Tou have much to speak of," continued 
Mr. Temple, " that will be new and interest- 
ing to many of our friends, and I need not 
say that as my son you will be heartily 
welcomed." 

"That, of course, sir," said Arthur; "it 
will not be, I am afraid, for my own de- 
servings." 



64 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

" That cannot come, Arthur, until you 
are personally known, and then I trust it 
will be for your sak^ as well as for mine 
that Mends wUl attach themselves to you. 
But indeed I have no doubt that such will 
be the case." 

" You are more confident than I am, sir,'^ 
said Arthur seriously. " I have my fear 
as to whether I shall feel at home in this 
new and poUshed atmosphere, after my 
experiences of the last two years." 

"Tou have no need to fear, Arthur; I 
am satisfied with you. I think I shall not 
make you vain when I tell you that your 
manners are fitted for any circle." 

Arthur's mother gazed fondly upon him 
as he replied, " It is an inheritance, sir, as 
are honour and truth, which 1 owe equally 
to you.'' 

"I must confess that it was not with 
entire confidence I saw you depart for your 
travels, but you have returned improved, 



The Woman. 65 



if anything. Contact with the world has al- 
ready improved you, and has opened your mind 
to the value of the refinements of society/* 

''Whether it be so/* said Arthur, with 
seriousness, "has yet to be proved. In the 
New World, with its rougher manners, I 
have seen much to admire— more, indeed, 
than in these more civilised surroundings. 
It is not whether they are fitted for me — 
it is whether I am fitted for them." 

*' There is plenty of romance to be found 
in these more sober scenes ; it will come to 
you, Arthur, as it has come to others." 

"In what shape, sir? And have you 
met with yours ? " 

Mr. Temple coloured slightly, and de- 
voted himself more closely to his paper, 
which he was perusing in the intervals of 
the conversation. Mrs. Temple sighed 
and looked away. Arthur had inadvert- 
ently touched a chord which vibrated keenly 
in the breasts of his parents. He did not 
know, and had never heard, that his father 

VOL. m. F 



66 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

had married for money and position, 
liad married without love, but it was no 
less a fact. A fact of which his mother 
was not aware until after marriage. It 
was not a sudden discovery on her part ; it 
was a gradual awakening, made more bitter 
by the womanly suspicion of another face, 
fairer perhaps than hers, and better loved 
in the past. In this she invested Mr. Tem- 
ple with qualities which he did not possess, 
and fashioned a hero — not hers, but an- 
other woman's — out of very common clay. 
There had never been any bickerings between 
her and her husband ; she had not distressed 
him with any outburst of jealousy ; and he 
gave her no cause for complaint that the world 
would have recognised and sympathised with. 
He was an exemplary husband, faithful and 
attentive, and was held up as a model by other 
wives. Mrs. Temple, before her marriage, had 
had her romance in her love for her husband ; 
a romance carefully fed by him at that time, 
for he played the lover skilfully. But very 



The Woman. 67 



shortly after they became man and wife, her 
dreams faded slowly and surely away. She 
saw that he had no heart for her, and it was 
most natural in her to be positive that, with 
his attractive person and the soft blandish- 
ments of speech of which she had had experi- 
ence when he wooed her, he had bestowed his 
heart elsewhere. She kept her secret well, 
and he was ignorant of it. Had she led 
him to suspect that she believed herself to 
be betrayed, it would have caused him much 
amazement. In the early years of her 
married life she was not regardless of his 
movements, but she made no discovery to 
confirm her jealousy. She was in the habit 
of watching his expressions when he opened 
his letters, and of listening with agonised 
attention to his murmurings in his sleep ; 
but she learnt nothing. Had there been 
anything to discover she would not have dis- 
covered it ; she was no match for him in cun- 
ning. Slowly she accepted her fate, with no 
outward repining, and they lived that calm 

F 2 



68 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

passionless life which to some souls is worse 
than death, and which with some highly 
nervous organisations occasionally leads to 
violent terminations and tragic results. 

"You were saying, Arthur," said Mr. 
Temple, with a direct evasion of Arthur's 
light question, "that you saw much to ad- 
mire in the rough manners of the men 
among whom you travelled." 

" Much, very much, to admire, sir. The 
proper assertion of a proper independence, 
for instance. The kingUness of manhood 
has no such exemplification in this city of 
unrest as it has in the free air of the New 
World, where men and women are not un- 
healthfuUy crowded together in small spaces. 
I see here, among the lower classes of 
society, no such free step, no such blithe 
spirits, as I have been accustomed to see 
among men in the same position at the other 
end of the world." 

" There are grades even there, Arthur/* 

" Surely, sir ; and human beings, wher- 




The Woman. 69 



ever they cluster, must be dependent upon 
each other ; but there, all grades express in 
their tone and bearing their obligation to 
each other, as equally from those above to 
those below, as from those below to those 
above. It is mutual, and there is no shame 
in it. Now, such dependence as I see here 
is ingrained in either real or assumed 
humiliation. Where it is real, it is pitiable 
and unnatural; where it is assumed, it is 
detestable. Either way it is bad and de- 
grading." 

'^ Admitting all this — which I do not — ^to 
what do you attribute this worse condition 
of affairs? *' 

" If you will pardon me," replied Arthur 
with modesty, " I have not gone as far as 
that. I have my thoughts, but I must see 
more before I should consider myself justified 
in accusing. I merely record what present 
themselves as clear pictures to my mind." 

" When you see more, and are able from 
positive experience and observation to form 



7© The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

just conclusions, you will admit that we 
must accept the world as we find it, and 
that the only wise course is to make use of 
it to our advantage." 

" To turn its foibles to our advantage, 
sir?" 

'' Most certainly." 

^'Its shipwrecks and calamities — you 
know what I mean, sir-^to turn even those 
to our advantage ? '* 

"It is always a difficult thing to argue 
with an enthusiast, especially with an en- 
thusiast whom one loves as I love you." 

" I know you love me, sir," interrupted 
Arthur warmly, '' but I do not like the idea 
you have expressed. I think you would 
scarcely uphold it in its ftdness." 

"It is not difficult for a skilful disputant 
to turn his adversary's words against him- 
self, and to so colour them as to make them 
bear a stronger and therefore different inter- 
pretation. Logic is an excellent weapon, 
Arthur, but it may be much abused." 



The Woman. 71 



"Admitted, sir. But it seems to me 
that it would be more noble and honourable 
to turn the experience we gained of the 
world to the world's advantage instead of to 
our own." 

" The two aims may go together ; but it 
is an absolute necessity that we should 
never lose sight of ourselves." 

"And of our own aggrandisement?" 
interrupted Arthur. 

" Yes, if you put it that way ; though 
there are pleasanter ways of expressing 
it." 

" More polished ways, sir ? 

" Yes." 

" But not more truthful.' 

" Probably not," said Mr. Temple, with 
no show of irritation, though he was se- 
cretly annoyed. " Remember that self-pre- 
servation is Nature's first law." 

"Which does not mean," said Arthur, 
flying off at a tangent, as is the way with 
most impulsive natures, " that we should be 



» 



99 



*J2 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

continually stabbing our comrades in the 
race, or grudging to others honours worthily 
won — such as yours, sir" — (the Honour- 
able Mr. Temple smiled complacently)— 
" or withholding from others a true meed of 
admiration because our own merits — ^which, 
of course in our own estimation, are very 
great — have not been so generally recog- 
nised." 

"These are common phrases, Arthur. 
Let me warn you to beware of platitudes. 
ITo platitudinarian ever rose in the world, 
or made for himself more than a mediocre 
reputation." 

" That is flying away from the argument, 
fiir," said Arthur vivaciously. 

" Yery well, then. I understand you to 
express that you should deem yourself as 
fortunate if you were unsuccessful in an 
ambition as if you had accomplished it." 

" Not quite that, sir, but in some small 
way I can imagine circumstances in which 
I should deem defeat a victory." 



Tlie Woman. 73 



"Do not imagine, Arthur — or, at all 
events, imagine as little as you can. Action 
Is what the world calls for, is what the 
world demands of its leaders. And if you 
can act — ^which every able and sensible 
mind can — ^in such a way as not to oppose 
an established order of things, success is all 
the more sure." 

" There is much to admire in souls which, 
animated by high desires, suffer from op- 
posing au established order of things, and 
are consequently not prosperous." 

" You have hit a nail, Arthur," said Mr. 
Temple, with emphasis ; ' " consequently not 



prosperous.' " 

" Exactly so, sir ; you take my meaning. 
I see in these unprosperous men much more 
to admire than in successful time-servers. 
And remember, sir,'' said Arthur, who fre- 
quently showed much pertinaciousness in 
argument, " that the very carrying out in 
its integrity of the axiom that preservation 
is Nature's first law would rob history of its 



74 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

most noble and heroic examples. I hope 
you do not mind my expressing myself thus 
plainly and, as I perceive, antagonistically 
to your views." 

" Not at all. It is better that you should 
speak . plainly to me what is in your mind 
than that you should needlessly betray your- 
self to strangers, who would not understand 
you." (Arthur was about to say here that 
he should not be deterred from expressing 
himself clearly in any society, but his father 
anticipated the declaration, and gave him no 
opportunity of expressing it.) '^It does 
one good to be able to relieve himself in 
confidence of the vapours that oppress 
him. The air becomes clearer afterwards. 
Notwithstanding our seeming diflfer- 
ence, I trust that our sympathies are in 



common " 



' ' I trust so, sir.* 

"We speak and judge from different 
standpoints ; I from a long and varied ex- 
perience of human nature, you from the 



The Woman. 75 



threshold of life. When you are my age, 
you will think exactly as I do, and will be 
perhaps endeavouring, as I am endeavouring 
now, to check in your own children the 
enthusiasm which blinds one with excess of 
light, and which almost invariably leads to 
false and unpractical conclusions/' 

Arthur pondered over these words in 
silence, as he sat and glanced at a news- 
paper, as his father was doing. The calm 
judicial air which Mr. Temple assumed in 
these arguments enabled him generally to ob- 
tain an apparent victory, but it was seldom 
that either of the disputants was satisfied 
with the result. Purposely cultivating the 
intimacy between himself and Arthur, so 
that he might counteract the enthusiasm 
which he feared might step in the worldly 
way of his son, Mr. Temple was conscious 
that he efltected but little good, and he could 
not but acknowledge to himself with inward 
trepidation that Arthur never failed to advo- 
cate the nobler side. This acknowledgment 



76 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

brought to his soul a sense of deep reproach 
-reproach which had he not loved his 
son, and based all his hopes upon him, 
might have caused an estrangement between 
them. For it was Arthur's words which 
awoke, not exactly his conscience, but his 
intellectual judgment, which compelled him 
to admit within the recesses of his own 
heart that he always played the meaner 
and the baser part in their arguments. 
Sometimes he asked himself if the lad was 
sincere; he subjected his own life as a 
young man to a critical analysis, to dis- 
cover whether he had been led away in 
his estimate of men and things as he 
feared Arthur was being led away. It was 
characteristic of the man that at this period 
of his life — ^whatever he may have done 
in his more youthful days— he did not 
juggle with himself. In his solitary musings 
and communings with his inner nature he 
admitted the truth — but the glowing and 
delicate promptings never passed his lips, 



The Woman. 77 



never found utterance. So now, on look- 
ing back, he saw at a single mental glance 
the wide barrier whieh divided his passions 
and his enthusiasms from those of his 
son. This barrier may be expressed in 
one word : selfishness. It was this senti- 
ment that had ruled his life, that had 
made him blind to the consequences he 
might inflict upon others by his acts. 
Whether it were a voluntary or involun- 
tarily guiding, by this sentiment had he 
been led step by step up the ladder, 
casting no look at the despair which lay 
behind him. It was otherwise with Ar- 
thur ; his father? recognised that his son's 
promptings were generous and noble, and 
that there was no atom of selfishness in 
his judgment of this and that. And when 
he came to this point a smile played 
about his lips, and a world of meaning 
found expression in his unuttered thought : 
" Arthur has not yet begun to live." 
The lad thought also ; he did not pause 



78 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

to ask himself whether his convictions were 
right or wrong — to those he was fixed by 
an unerring instinct. But he tried, with 
little success, to bring his views into har- 
mony with his father's worldly wisdom. 
The only consolation he derived was in the 
reflection that there was more than one fair 
road to a goal. As to throwing a doubt 
upon his father's rectitude and honour, no 
shadow of such a thought crossed his mind. 
He felt, as his father did, that there was a 
barrier between them, and he mentally 
resolved to endeavour to break it down. 
He glanced at his father's immovable face 
and tightly closed lips, and saw that he was 
occupied by musings that distressed him. 
"It is I," thought Arthur, " who have 
given him pain. He is disappointed in me. 
Surely it is only because we cannot arrive 
at an understanding." How to commence 
to break down this barrier? The first 
means were in his hands — a newspaper, the 
epitome of life in all its large and small 



The Woman. 79 



aspects, from the deposing of an emperor to 
the celebration of a new style in bonnets, 
from the horrible massacre of thousands of 
human beings in the East of Europe to the 
mild kicking of his wife by a costermonger 
in the East of London. 

He commenced in a trembling voice — for 
the lad was the soul of ingenuousness, and 
could not play a part, however small, with- 
out betraying himself — ^by an introductory 
comment on a political question of the day. 
Mr. Temple instantly aroused himself, and 
replied, without observing Arthur's agitation. 
Gaining confidence, Arthur proceeded, and 
an animated conversation ensued. Their 
views were again antagonistic, but there was 
nothing personally painful in their dissent. 
With the skill of long experience Mr. 
Temple drew Arthur out upon the theme, 
and the lad became eloquent, as earnestness 
generally is — ^but this eloquence, combined 
with this earnestness, was of a standard so 
high, and the language and periods in 



8o The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

whicli Arthur illustrated his points were at 
once so powerful and polished, that Mr, 
Temple thrilled with exultation, and he 
thought, " All is well.'' His face cleared, 
his manner was almost joyous, and when the 
subject was exhausted he said, 

"Arthur, you have afforded me great 
delight. I cannot express my pride and 
pleasure. You are an orator." 

Arthur blushed and stammered ; the 
praise unnerved him, and brought him back 
to sober earth. 

"Yes," continued Mr. Temple, "you are 
an orator, and you will fall into your proper 

groove in life Nay, do not interrupt 

me ; you will verify my prediction. When 
a great, a noble gift is given to a man, and 
he knows that it is his — ^which is not always 
the case, Arthur — and when opportunity is 
given to him as it wiU be given to you, it 
is impossible for him to neglect it. God 
has given you the gift of eloquence, and you 
will fail in your duty if you do not properly 



The Woman. 8i 



use it. You are far in advance of me; I 
am accounted a good speaker, but I confess 
to you that I never lose myself in my 
irords; if I did, I should become incoherent. 
I know beforehand what I am about to 
say; your words are unstudied, and are 
conveyed with a fire which cannot but stir 
your listeners to enthusiasm. That your 
political views differ from mine hurts me 
but little." Arthur raised his face to his 
father's ki quick affectionate response. ^^ I 
am a Conservative; if your views do not 
undergo change, you wiU become a Liberal ; 
and in this you will but march with the 
times. The fields are equally honourable- 
Tou will become a champion, a leader of 
your party. But be not too advanced, 
Arthur. Let discretion temper all. My 
dear boy, my fondest hopes will be realised 
in you." 

From politics they passed to other themes, 
drawn from the columns of the newspaper, 
and then silence reigned for a little while. 

VOL. in. G 



S2 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

Mrs. Temple had left the room, and Arthur 
was now engaged in a column which ap- 
peared to interest him more than politics, 
foreign complications, or the state of the 
money-market, all of which matters had 
formed subject of conversation. Presently* 
he spoke. 

^^ It is a great pleasure to me to be able 
to speak openly to you, sir, and to feel that, 
though you do not always agree with me, 
I can say exactly what is in my mind." 

" Unhappily, Arthur, this kind of confi- 
dence is too rarely cultivated. It needs no 
cultivation in us. It already exists.'' 

As he spoke his arm stole about Arthur's 
shoulder, and fondly rested there. 

"You have so directed my thoughts to 
myself and the career before me that as I 
read I find myself almost unconsciously 
examining the relative impressions produced 
upon me by current events." 

" An intellectual sign, Arthur." 

" Pray, sir, do not fiatter me too much," 



The Woman. 83 



said Arthur seriously; *4t produces in me 
a sensation which is not entirely agree- 
able." 

" You must make allowance, Arthur, for 
a father's pride in his son.'^ 

" Forgive me for my remark ; I forgot 
myself for a moment. I doubt whether I 
deserve the love you bestow upon me." 
' *' You more than deserve it, my dear boy, 
by returning it." 

*' Which I do, sir, heartily, sincerely. 
Well, then, I was about to say that I 
find myself much more affected by the 
domestic and social incidents in the 
newspapers than by the larger historical 
records. For instance, neither the political 
crisis nor the war produces within me 
so strong an impression as the sad history 
comprised in this short paragraph." 

Mr. Temple turned his head towards the 
paper, and glanced at the paragraph pointed 
out by Arthur, making no attempt to 
read it. 

G 2 



84 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

" Concerning any . public person, Ar- 
thur?'' 

"No, sir. Concerning one whose name 
might never have been known but for her 
misfortunes." 

" Her misfortunes ! A woman, then ? " 

"A poor girl, found drowned in the 



river." 



" Murdered ? " 

" She met her death by her own hands. 
On the river bank she had placed her 
cliild, a mere infant three or four months 
old. The poor girl — scarcely my age, and 
well-looking, the account says — must have 
drowned herself in the night when it was 
dark. First she stripped herself of her 
warm under-clothing, and wrapped her 
baby in it to protect it from the cold, 
hoping no doubt that it would fall into 
humane hands soon after she walked to 
her doom. But the night passed, and the 
child was not discovered. By a strange 
fatality, within a few hours after the girl- 



The Woman. ^k 



mother was drowned, the waves washed 
her body oh to the river's bank near to 
the form of her child, and when the sun 
shone, its light fell upon the dead mother 
and her living child lying side by side. 
There was nothing about her to prove 
her identity; even the initials on her 
clothes had been careftdly removed. But 
a paper was found, on which was written, 
evidently by one of fair education : * By 
my sinful act I remove myself and my 
shame from the eyes of a cruel world. I 
die in despair, unconsoled by the belief 
that retribution will fall upon the head of 
him who betrayed and deserted me.' On 
the head of him who betrayed her ! Is 
it possible that such a man, after reading 
this record of his guilt — as perhaps he may 
be doing at this very moment — can enjoy a 
moment's happiness ? Is it possible that he 
can sleep? Though by this dead girl's 
generosity his secret is safe, retribution will 
fall upon him — as surely as there is a 



86 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 



heaven above us ! If I discovered that ever 
in my life I had clasped the hand of such 
a man, I should be tempted to cut mine from 
its wrist to rid myself of the shameful con- 
tamination of his touch! What is the 
matter, sir ? You are ill ! " 

"A sudden faintness, Arthur— nothing 
more. I have been working hard lately, 
and I need rest. Good night." 

As Mr. Temple rose to leave the room, 
he turned from Arthur's anxious gaze a 
face that was like the face of a ghost. 



CHAPTER XXIV. 



MRS. LENOIR. 



In more than one respect Mrs. Lenoir 
was an object of interest to her neighbours, 
and in some sense a mystery, which they 
solved after a fashion not uncommon among 
poor people. That she was a woman of 
superior breeding to themselves, and that 
she did not associate freely with them, 
would certainly, but for one consideration, 
have stirred their resentment against her. 
Mrs. Lenoir did not, to adopt their own 
vernacular, give herself airs. ''At all 
events,'* said they, " there's nothing stuck 
up about her." Moving among them, with 
her silent ways, she exhibited no conscious- 
ness of superiority, as other women in a 



88 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

> 

similar position might have done ; instead 
of holding her head above them, she walked 
the streets with a demeanour so uniformly 
sad and humble, that the feeling she evoked 
was one more of pity than of resentment. 
There is in most humilities a pride which 
hurts by contact, and — a common failing 
with human nature — is intended so to 
do. Had this been apparent in Mrs. 
Lenoir, her neighbours' tongues would have 
wagged remorselessly in her disfavour ; but 
the contrary was the case. There was ex- 
pressed in her bearing a mute appeal to 
them to be merciful to her; instead of 
placing herself above them, she seemed 
to place herself below them, and she 
conveyed the impression of living through 
the sad days weighed down by a grief too 
deep for utterance, and either too sacred 
or too terrible for human communion. 
When circumstances brought her into com- 
munication with her neighbours, her gentle- 
ness won respect and consideration ; and 



The Woman. 89 



wliat was known of her life outside the 
boundary of the lonely room she occupied, 
and which no person was allowed to enter, 
touched their hearts in her favour. Thus, 
as &r as her means allowed her — and 
indeed, although they were not aware of 
it, far beyond her means — she was kind 
to the sick and to those who were poorer 
than herself, and she frequently went 
hungry to bed because of the sacrifices 
she made for them. Such small help as 
she could give was invariably proffered 
unobtrusively, almost secretly; but it be- 
came known, and it did her no harm in 
the estimation of her neighbours. 

But what excited the greatest curiosity and 
the most frequent comment was the strange 
&ncy which possessed her of seeking out 
young girls who were sweethearting, and 
voluntarily rendering them just that kind of 
service which they were likely most to 
value — ^ministering to their innocent vani- 
ties in a manner which they regarded as 



90 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

most noble and generous. It is among the 
humbler classes that the chivalrous feeling 
which places high value upon trifling kind- 
nesses most frequently finds expression. Mrs. 
Lenoir was a cunning needlewoman, and in 
the cutting out of a dress had no equal 
in the neighbourhood. She possessed, also, 
the art, rare among Englishwomen, of 
knowing precisely the style, colours, and 
material which would best become the girl 
she desired to serve. To many such Mrs. 
Lenoir would introduce herself, and offer 
her services as dressmaker, stipulating be- 
forehand that she should be allowed to work 
for love, and not for money. The exercise 
of this singular fancy made her almost a 
public character; and many a girl who 
was indebted to her, and whose wooing was 
brought to a happy conclusion, endeavoured 
gratefully to requite her services by pressing 
an intimacy upon her. Mrs. Lenoir steadily 
repelled every advance made in this direc- 
tion. She gave them most willingly the 




The Woniaru 91 



work of her hands, but she would not 
admit them to her heart, nor would she 
confide her sorrows to them, as they, moved 
by her sad pitiful face, often urged her to 
do. She received their confidences, and 
sympathised with and advised them ; but 
fihe gave no confidence in return. It was 
in this way she had been brought into 
acquaintanceship with Lizzie, as recorded 
in a previous chapter. 

There was but one explanation open to 
her neighbours. They declared that Mrs. 
Lenoir was not quite right in her mind. 

Perhaps they were right. Constant and 
silent brooding, a lonely life, a persistent 
refusal of sympathy and affection, are the 
surest means to produce such a result. 
Her neighbours had no suspicion that they 
saw only the woman's outer life, and that 
her inner life was a sealed book to them. 
It was not the less true. 

Had they been cognisant of the life that 
was hidden from them, they would have 



•» 



92 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

made their verdict stronger — they would 
have declared her to be mad. This silent, 
reserved, and strangely-kind woman was 
subject to emotions and passions which no 
human eye witnessed, which no human 
breast shared. In the solitude of her 
poorly-furnished attic, she would stand 
motionless for hours, looking out upon the 
darkness of the night. At these times, not 
a sound, not a movement escaped her ; she 
was as one in a trance, incapable of mo- 
tion. And not unlikely, as is recorded 
of those who lie in that death-like sleep, 
there was in her mind a chaos of thought, 
terrible and overwhelming. It was always 
in the night that these moods took pos- 
session of her. It was a peculiar phase 
of her condition that darkness had no 
terrors for her. When dark shadows only 
were visible, she was outwardly calm and 
peaceful; but moonlight stirred her to 
startling extravagances. She trembled, she 
shuddered, her white lips moved con- 



;^ 



The Woman. 93 



ynlsively, she sank upon her knees, and 
strove, with wHdly waving hands, to beat 
away the light. But she was dominated by 
a resistless force which compelled her to 
face the light, and draw from it memories 
which agonised her. The brighter and 
more beantifiil was the night, the keener 
was her pain, and she had no power to fly 
from it. If she awoke from sleep, and saw 
the moon shining through the window, she 
would hide her eyes in the bedclothes, with 
tears and sobs that came from a broken 
heart, and the next moment her feeble hands 
would pluck the clothes aside, so that she 
might gaze upon the peaceful light which 
stabbed her like a knife. She was ruled by 
other influences scarcely less powerftd. 
Moonlight shining on still waters ; certain 
fl^owers; falling snow — ^all these terribly 
disturbed her, and aroused in full force the 
memories which tortured her. Had her 
neighbours witnessed her paroxysms on 
these occasions, they would have had the 



94 The Duchess 0/ Rosemary Lane. 

fairest reason for declaring that Mrs. Lenoir 
was mad. 

She lived entirely out of the world ; read 
no newspapers ; played a part in no scan- 
dals; and the throbs of great ambitions 
which shook thrones and nations never 
reached the heart, never touched the soul 
of this lonely woman, who might have been 
supposed to be patiently waiting for death 
to put an end to her sorrows, 

A few weeks after she had made Lizzie's 
dress, Mrs Lenoir was sitting as usual alone 
in her room. She was not at work; with her 
hand supporting her face, she was ga2dng with 
tearful eyes upon three pictures, which she 
had taken from a desk which stood open on 
the table. This desk was in itself a remark- 
able possession for a person in her position 
in life. It was inlaid with many kinds of 
curious woods, interspersed with slender 
devices in silver ; it was old, and had seen 
service, but it had been carefully used. The 
three pictures represented sketches of a 



The Woman. 95 



beautiful face, the first of a child a 
year old, the second the child grown to 
girlhood, the third the girl grown to woman- 
hood. The pictures were painted in water- 
colours, and the third had been but recently- 
sketched. Over the mantelshelf hung a 
copy of this last picture, which — as was 
the case with all of them — ^though the hand of 
the amateur was apparent, evidenced a lov- 
ing care in its execution. Long and with 
yearning eyes did Mrs. Lenoir gaze upon 
the beautiful face ; had it been warm and 
living by her side, a more intense and wor- 
shipping love could not have been expressed 
by the lonely woman. The striking of eight 
o'clock from an adjacent church roused 
her ; with a sigh that was like a sob, she 
placed the pictures in ]ier desk, and setting 
it aside, resumed the needlework which she 
had allowed to fall into her lap. 

Winter had come somewhat suddenly 
upon the city, and snow had fallen earlier 
than usual. , One candle supplied the room 



96 The Duchess 0/ Rosemary Lane. 

with light, and a Tery small fire with 
warmth. For an honr Mrs. Lenoir worked 
with the monotony of a machine, and then 
she was disturbed by a knock at the door. 
She tamed her head, but did not speak. 
The knock was repeated, and a Toice from 
without called to her. 

" Are you at home, Mrs. Lenoir ? " 

" Yes, Lizzie." 

" Let me in." 

" I will come to you." 

Mrs. Lenoir went to the door, which was 
locked, and, turning the key, stepped into 
the passage. 

" Well, Lizzie ? ^' 

^^ But you must let me in, Mrs. Lenoir. 
I want to tell you something, and I can't 
speak in the dark." , 

^^ Lizzie, you must bear with my strange 
moods. You know I neT» receiTe visi- 
tors." 

" To call me a visitor ! And Tve nm to 
tell you the very first ! Mrs. Lenoir^ I 



The Woman, 97 



haye no mother ; you have that place in my 
heart." 

Lizzie's pleading conquered. She glided 
by Mrs. Lenoir, and entered the room. 
Mrs. Lenoir slowly followed. Lizzie's face 
was bright, her manner joyous. 

"Guess what has happened, Mrs. Le- 
noir ! " 

Mrs. Lenoir cast a glance at Lizzie's 
happy face. 

" You will soon be married, Lizzie." 

" Yes," said Lizzie, with' sparkling eyes, 
"it was all settled this evening. And do 
you know, Mrs. Lenoir, that though I've 
been thinking of it and thinking of it ever 
since me and Charlie have known each other, 
it seems as if something wonderful has hap- 
pened which I never could have hoped 
would come true. But it is true, Mrs. 
Lenoir. In three weeks from this very 
day. It's like a dream." 

Mrs. Lenoir had resumed her work 
while Lizzie was speaking, and now steadily 

VOL. ni. H 



98 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 



pursued it as the girl continued to prattle 
of her hopes and dreams. 

" You will make my dress, Mrs. Le- 
noir ? " 

"Yes, Lizzie." 

"And you'll let Charlie pay for the 
making ? "• 

"You must find another dressmaker, 
then. What I do for you I do for " 

" Love ! " 

" If you like to call it so, Lizzie. At 
all events I will' not take money for it." 

" You are too good to me, Mrs. Lenoir. 
I can't help myself; you mu^t make my 
dress, because no one else could do it a 
hundredth part as well, and because, for 
Charlie's sake, I want to look as nice as 
possible. And that's what I mean to do 
all my life. I'll make myself always 
look as nice as I can, so that Charlie 
shall never get tired of me. But one 
thing you must promise me, Mrs. Lenoir." 

" What is that, Lizzie ? " 



k 



The Woman, 99 



" You'll come to the wedding." 
Mrs. Lenoir shook her head. 
" I go nowhere, as you know, Lizzie. 
You must not expect me." 

*'But I haye set my heart upon it, and 
Charlie has too ! I am always talking to 
him of you, and he sent me up now especially 
to bring you, or #0 ask if he may come and 
see you. * Perhaps she'll take a bit of a 
walk with us,' said Charlie. It has leffc off 

snowing " 

Mrs. Lenoir shuddered. 
^* Has it been snowing ? " 
" Oh, for a couple of hours ! The ground 
looks beautiful ; but everything is beautiful 
now." Lizzie looked towards the window. 
*^ Ah, you didn't see the snow because the 
blind was down. Do come, Mrs. Lenoir." 

" No, Lizzie, you must not try to per- 
suade me ; it is useless." 

** But you are so much alone — you never 
go anywhere ! And this is the first time you 
have allowed me to come into your room. 

H 2 



lOo The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 



You are unhappy, I know, and you don't 
deserve to be. Let me love you, Mrs. Lenoir.'' 

" Lizzie, I must live as I have always 
lived. It is my fate." 

" Has it been so all your life ? When 
you were my age, were you the same as 
you are now ? Ah, no ; I can read feces, 
and yours has answered me. I wish I 
could comfort you." 

"It is not in your power. Life for me 
contains only one possible comfort, only one 
possible joy ; but so remote, so unlikely 
ever to come, that I fear I shall die with- 
out meeting it. Urge me no further. It 
is but inflicting on me additional pain. 
Leave me now ; I have a great deal of work 
to get through to-night." 

Lizzie, perceiving that further persuasion 
would be useless, turned to leave the room. 
As she did so, her eyes fell upon the 
picture of the girl-woman himgiTig over 
the mantelshelf. With a cry of delight 
she stepped dose to it 



The Woman. loi 



" How beautiful ! Is it your portrait, 
Mrs. Lenoir, when you were a girl ? Ah, 
yes, it is like you." 

" It is not my portrait, Lizzie." 

" Whose then ? Do you know her ? 
But of course you do. What lovely eyes 
and hair ! It is a face I could never 
forget if I had once seen it. Who is she ? " 

The expression of hopeless love in Mrs. 
Lenoir's eyes as she gazed upon the picture 
was pitiful to see. 

"It is a portrait painted from a heart's 
memory, Lizzie." 

" Painted by you ? " 

" By me." 

" How beautifully it is done ! I always 
knew you were a lady. And I've been 
told you can speak languages. I was a 
little girl when I heard the story of a poor 
foreigner dying in this street, who gave 
you, in a foreign language, his dying 
message to his friends abroad. That is 
true, is it not, Mrs. Lenoir ? " 



I02 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

" It is quite true. It would have been 
better for me had I been bom poor and 
ignorant, and had I not been what you sup- 
pose me to have been — ^a lady. Lizzie, if 
you love me, leave me ! " 

" Mrs. Lenoir, is there no hope of happi- 
ness for you ? *' 

"Have I not already told you? I have 
a hope, a wild, unreasoning hope, spring- 
ing from the bitterest sorrow that ever 
fell to woman's lot. Apart from that, my 
only desire is to live and die in peace. 
And now, Lizzie, good night." 

Constrained to leave, Lizzie took her 
departure, saddened by the sadness of this 
woman of sorrow ; but the impress of 
another's grief soon fsides from the heart 
in which happiness reigns, and, within a 
few minutes, the girl, in the company of 
her lover, was again rapt in the contempla- 
tion of her own bright dreams. 

The moment Lizzie quitted the room, 
Mrs. Lenoir turned the key in the door. 




The Woman. 103 



«o that no other person should enter. The 
interview had aflfected her powerfully, and 
the endeavour she made to resume her 
work was futile; her fingers refused to 
ftLlfil their office. Eising from her seat, 
she paced the room with uneven steps, 
with her hands tightly clasped before her» 
To and fro, to and fro she walked, casting 
her eyes fearsomely towards the window 
every time she turned to face it. The 
curtains were thick, and the night was 
hidden from her, but she seemed to see 
it through the dark folds ; it possessed a 
terrible fascination for her, against which 
she vainly struggled. It had been snowing, 
Lizzie had said. She had not known it ; 
was it snowing still ? She would not, she 
dared not look ; she clasped her fingers 
so tightly that the blood deserted them ; 
she was fearful that if she relaxed her 
grasp, they would tear the curtains aside, 
and reveal what she dreaded to see. For 
on this night, when she had been gazing 



104 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

on the face which was present to her 
through her dreaming and waking hour», 
when her heart had been cruelly stirred by 
the words which had passed between Lizzie 
and herself, the thought of the white and 
pitiless snow was more than ever terrifying 
to her. It brought back to her with 
terrible force memories the creation of 
which had been productive of fatal results 
to the peace and happiness of her life. 
They never recurred to her without bring- 
ing with them visions of snow falling, 
or lying still as death on hill and plain. 
The &miliar faces in these scenes were 
few- — a man she had loved ; a man who loved 

her ; a child and at this point, all actual 

knowledge stopped. What followed was 
blurred and indistinct. She had ridden or 
had walked through the snow for months^ as 
it seemed ; there was no day — it was always 
night ; the white plains were alive 
with light ; the moon shone in the heavens ; 
the white sprays flew from the horse's 



The Woman. 105 



hoofs; through narrow lanes and trackless 
fields she rode and rode until a break 
occurred in the oppressive monotony. 
They are in a cottage, she and the man 
who loved her, and a sudden faintness 
comes upon her. Is it a creation of her 
fency that she hears a woman's soft voice 
singing to her child, or is the sound really 
in the cottage ? Another thing. Is she 
looking upon a baby lying in a cradle, 
and does she press her lips upon the sleep- 
ing infant's face ? Fact and fancy are so 
strangely commingled — the glare of the 
white snow has so dazed her — ^the air is so 
thick with shadowy forms and faces — that 
she cannot separate the real from the ideal. 
But it is true that she is on the road 
again, and that the horse is plodding 
along, throwing the white sprays from his 
hoofs as before, until another change comes 
upon the scene. She and the mau are 
toiling wearily through the snow, which 
she now looks upon as her enemy, toiling 



io6 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

wearily, wearily onward, until they reach 
the gate of a chnreh, when she feels her 
senses deserting her. Earth and sky are 
merging into one another, and all things 
are feiding from her sight — aU things but 
the quaint old chnrch with its hooded 
porch, which bends compassionately towards 
her, and offers her a peaceful sanctuary. 
This church and the tombstones around it, 
the Tery form and shape of which she sees 
clearly in the midst of her ^gony, she 
has oyer clearly remembered. Eyen in 
the death-like trance that &lls upon her, 
she sees the outline of the church and 
its approaches. Friendly hands assist her 
into the sanctuary of rest. How long does 
she ]ie in peace? How many hours, or 
days, or weeks pass by, before she sees 
strange fsices bending oyer her« before she 
hears strange yoices about her? What 
has occurred between the agony of the 
time that has gone and the ineffiible rapture 
that fills her yeins as she presses a baby 



The Woman. 107 



to her breast? What follows after this? 
She cannot tell. During the sad and 
lonely years that have brought silver 
streaks into her hair, she has striven 
hundreds of times to recall the sequence 
of events that culminated with the 
loss of her treasure. But she strives 
in vain. Time and her own weakness 
have destroyed the record. Long intervals 
of illness, during which the snow is always 
Mling and the moonUght always gleaming ; 
glimpses of heaven in the bright-blue 
laughing eyes of a lovely babe — her own 
child, who lies upon her breast, pure and 
beautiful as an angel; then, a terrible- 
darkness ; and loneliness for evermore. 

For evermore? Is this truly to be her 
fate ? Can Heaven be so cruel as to allow 
her to die without gazing upon the face 
of her child ? For a blind faith possesses 
her that her darling lives. Against all 
reason — in the face of all circumstance. 
Can she not believe that, during her 



io8 The Duchess 0/ Rosemary Lane. 

delirium, her babe was taken from her, 
and died before she recovered her senses ? 
When this was told her, in a careless way, 
and almost casually, as though it were a 
matter so ordinary as to be scarcely worthy 
of comment, and when to this were added 
sharp and bitter words to the eflFect that 
she ought to fall upon her knees, and 
thank God that her child was not living to 
share her shame and disgrace, she looked 
with a pitiful smile into the fsice of her 
informant, and, rising without a word, 
went her way into the world. Into the 
lonely world, which henceforth contained 
no hand that she could clasp in love or 
friendship. 

Her shame ! Yes, truly hers. It held 
an abiding place in her heart. It caused 
her to shrink from the gaze of man, and 
fit)m the words, more surely bitter, which 
she saw trembling on the lips of those who 
woidd address her. Eyes flashed contempt 
upon her ; tongues reviled her ; fingers 



The Woman. 109 



were pointed at her in scorn and abhor- 
rence. What was there before her but 
to fly from these stings and nettles, and 
hide herself from the sight of all who 
chanced to know her ? She accepted her lot. 
Heart-broken she wandered into the great 
depths of the city, and lived her life of silence. 
As now she paced the attic, the walls 
of which had witnessed her long agony, 
her thoughts, as at such periods they ever 
did, travelled to the fatal time which had 
wrecked her peace and almost destroyed 
her reason. She had hitherto suffered 
without repining, but her spirit began to 
rebel against the injustice of the fate 
which had stripped her life of joy. Until 
now there had been nothing of sullenness 
in her resignation ; she had accepted her 
hard lot with passive unreasoning sub- 
mission; and had flung back no stones, 
even in thought, in return for those that 
were cast at her. But she seemed on this 
night to have reached the supreme point 



no The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

of resignation, and some sense of the 
heartless wrong which had been inflicted 
upon her stole into her sonl. But this 
new feeling did not debar her from the 
contemplation of the night outside her 
room. It was snowing, Lizzie had said. 
She could not resist the fascination of the 
words; they drew her to the window; 
they compelled her to pluck the curtain 
aside. The snow was falling. 

With feverish haste, scarce knowing 
what she was doing, she fastened her 
bonnet, flung her shawl over her shoul- 
ders, and walked into the streets. There 
were but few persons stirring in her 
neighbourhood ; the public- houses, of course, 
were full, and the street-vendors were 
stamping their feet upon the pavement, 
more from habit, being in the presence of 
snow, than from necessity, for the weather 
was a long way from freezing point ; but 
Mrs. Lenoir paid no heed to the signs 
about her. Her thoughts were her com- 



The Woman. iii 



panions, to divert her attention from 
which would need something more power- 
M than ordinary sights and sounds. She 
did not appear to be conscious of the road 
she was taking, nor to care whither she 
, directed her steps. Now and then, a 
passer-by paused to gaze after the excited 
woman, who speeded onwards as though 
an enemy were on her track. So fast did 
she walk, that she was soon out of the 
narrow labyrinths, and treading the wider 
thoroughfares, past the Eoyal Exchange 
and Mansion House, through Cheapside 
and St. Paul's Churchyard, into the busier 
life of Fleet Street — to avoid which, or 
from some unseen motive, she turned 
mechanically to the left, and came on to 
the Embankment, by the side of the river. 
Then, for the first time, she paused, but not 
for long. The moon was shining, and a 
long rippling line of light stretched to the 
edge of the water, at some distance from 
the spot on which she stood, where it 



112 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane, 



lapped with a dismal soiind the stone 
steps of a landing plaoe. The wayes 
washed the rippling light on to the dark 
slimy stones, and, to her feyered fancy, 
the light crept np the stones to the level 
sur&ce of the pavement, along which 
it slowly unwound itself, like a coil, 
until it touched her feet. With a shudder, 
she stepped into this imaginary line of 
light, not hurriedly now, but softly on 
and on, down the steps, until her shoes 
were in the water. A man rose like a 
black shadow from a tomb, and stood 
before her, and, with an oath, clutched her 
arm. She wrenched it from him with an 
affrighted cry, sensible of her perilous 
position, and fled — so swiftly, that though 
he who had saved her hurried after her, 
he could not reach her side. She ran 

4 

along the Embankment till she came to 
Westminster Bridge, when she turned 
her back upon the river, and mingled 



The Woman. 1 1 3 



with the people that were going towards 
the Strand. 

She had walked at least five miles, but 
she felt no fatigue. There are occasions 
when the weakest bodies are capable of 
strains that would break down the strongest 
organisations, and this frail woman was up- 
held by mental forces which supplied her 
with power to bear. In the Strand she 
found her progress impeded. It was eleven 
o'clock, and the theatres were pouring out 
their animated crowds. In one of these 
crowds she became ingulfed, and formed 
a passive unit in the excited throng, being 
hustled this way and that, and pushed 
mercilessly about by those who were 
struggling to disentangle themselves. This 
rough treatment produced no eflfect upon 
her ; she submitted in patience, and in time 
reached the edge of the crowd. When she 
arrived at a certain point, where the people 
had room to move more freely, two persons, 

VOL. m. I 



114 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

a man and a woman, passed her, and the 
voice of the woman fell upon her ears. 

An exclamation of bewildered amazement 
hiuig upon Mrs. Lenoir's lips. It was her 
own voice she had heard, and she had not 
spoken. ]^ot the sad voice which those 
who knew her were accustomed to hear, 
but the glad blithe voice which was hers 
in her youth, and which she had been told 
was sweet as music. 

She paused and listened; but only the 
accustomed Babel of sound reached her now. 
She had distinguished but one word — 
" Love," and she knew she had not uttered 
it. Although her nerves were quivering 
under the influence of the mystery, she had 
no choice but to pursue her way, and she 
continued walking in the direction of Temple 
Bar. 

Qradually the human throng lessened in 
numbers. It was spreading itself towards 
the home lights through all the windings 
of the city ; and when Mrs. Lenoir had 



The Woman. 115 



passed the arch of the time-honoured ob- 
straction she had room enough and to spare. 
Now and then she was overlapped by per- 
sons whose gait was more hurried than her 
own; more frequently she passed others 
who were walking at a more reasonable 
pace. Approaching a couple who, arm-in- 
arm, were stepping onwards as leisurely as 
though it were noon instead of near mid- 
night, she heard again the Yoice that had 
startled her. 

Her first impulse was to run forward and 
look upon the face of the speaker ; but she 
restrained herself, or rather was restrained 
by the conflicting passions which agitated 
her breast ; and without removing her eyes 
from the forms of the two persons before 
her, she followed them with feeble uncertain 
steps. For the woman's strength was going 
from her ; she was wearied and exhausted, 
and she had to struggle now with nature. It 
was fortunate for her that the man and 

I 2 



1 1 6 The Duchess of Rosemary Laru. 

tho woman she was following were walking 
slowly, or she must inevitably have lost 
thom. And even as it was, she dragged her 
weary foot after them, as one in a dream 
might havo done. 

That tho woman was young, was evident 
from hor lithe motions; joyous health and 
spirits proclaimed themselves in the light 
springy step, and the musical laugh that 
rtuig frequently in the air was like the 
sound of silver bells. That she was beauti- 
fVil could not be doubted : it was the theme 
i>f their oouversation at the present mo- 
menta 

^^ And you think me very beautiful ? '* 
^^ You are more than beautifuL You are 
the most lovely girl in the worid But if 
I CiUitiuue to tell you the same story, I 
»)udl make \ou the raineet as well as the 
loveliest*^* 

^" Oh> uo ; I like to he« you. Go on." 
'^Theix there^» aztsother (baxgv. TIkni^ 
jQU kB»w 1 love yo^fc ^ 



The Woman, 117 



" Yes/' 

"And though you have told me you love 
me " 

"Yes." 

" You do, you Kttle witch ? " 

" Oh, yes." 

"Well, there's the danger of losing 
you." 

" In what way? How ? " 

" Some one else might see you, and jEall 
in love with you." 

"Suppose some one else couldn't help 
it ? " This with a delicious silvery laugh. 

" By heavens, you're enough to drive a 
saint out of his senses ! " 

« Me ? " 

"Well, your cool way of saying things." 

" But go on about the danger of losing 
me." 

" And you might fall in love with some 
one else." 

"I don't think so," said the girl, with 
the air of one who was considering a prob- 



1 1 8 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

lem which did not aflFect her. '' I couldn't 
fall in love with any man that wasn't a 
gentleman. And you are one ? '' 

" I hope so." 

"That is why I like you. You are a 
gentleman, you are good-looking and rich ; 
while I " 

"You!" Tt was scarcely an interrup- 
tion, for the girl paused, as in curious con- 
templation of what might follow. " You ! 
You are fit to be a queen." 

"I «w a duchess, remember," said the 
girl, with an arch smile, which became 
graver with the words; "I wonder why 
they called me so ! " 

" Because they saw you were above them, 
and better than they." 

"Why should they have seen that? 
What made them see it? I could hardly 
speak at. the time, and I don't even remem- 
ber it." 

" Nor anything about yourself before you 



The Woman. 119 



were brought to Eosemary Lane ? *' inquired 
the man anxiously. 

^^ No ; nothing that does not seem like a 
dream.'^ 

" One can remember dreams." 

" I can't remember mine. But some- 
times I have a curious impression upon 
me.'' 

"May I hear it?" 

« 

" Why not ? It is upon me now. It is 
this : that when I dreamt — ^before I remem- 
ber anything, you know ? " 

"Yes." 

"That it was always snowing, as it is 
now." 

What subtle vapour affected the fair and 
beautiful girl — surely subject to no dis- 
tempered fancies, glowing as she was with 
health, and with pulses beating joyously— 
that she should suddenly pause, and gaze 
upon the snow with a troubled air ? What 
subtle vapour affected the wan and exhausted 
woman behind her that at the same moment 



120 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

she also should pause, and hold her thin, 
transparent hand to her eyes, to shut out 
the white glare of the snow that troubled 
her soul ? There was a curious resemblance 
in their attitudes as they thus stood in 
silence — the girl in the light, the woman in 
the shade. 

A gust of wind, if it did not dispel the 
vapour, stirred the actors in this scene into 
motion,, and the girl and her lover— for 
there could be no doubt of the relation they 
bore to each other — resumed their walk, 
Mrs. Lenoir still following them with 
steps that grew more feeble every mo- 
ment. 

Of the conversation between the lovers 
not a word had reachied her. Now and 
again she heard the sound of the girl's 
voice, when it was raised higher than usual, 
but the words that accompanied it were lost 
upon her. She had formed a distinct pur- 
pose during the journey, if in her weak 
condition of mind and body any pnrpose she 



The Woman. I2i 



Tvished to carry out can be called distinct. 
She would keep them in sight until the 
man had taken his departure, and the girl 
was alone. Then she would accost the girl, 
and look into her face. That was the end 
of her thought ; the hopes and fears which 
enthralled and supported her were too wild 
and whirring for clear interpretation. And 
yet it appeared as though she herself feared 
to be seen ; for once or twice when the man 
or the girl looked back, Mrs. Lenoir shrank 
tremblingly and in pitiable haste into the 
obscurity of the deeper shadows of the 
night. 

They were now in the east of London, 
near Eosemary Lane, and the girl paused, 
and stopped her companion, with the re- 
mark, 

'* You must not come any further." 

This was so far fortunate for Mrs. Lenoir, 

inasmuch as otherwise she would have lost 

sight of those she had followed. Nature 

had conquered, and a faintness like 



122 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

the faintness of death was stealing upon 
her. 

The man and the girl were long in bid- 
ding each other good night. It was said 
half-a-dozen times, and still he lingered, 
loth to leave her. 

** Eemember,*' he said, as he stood with 
his arm around her, "you have pro- 
mised not to mention my name to your 
people.'^ 

*^ Yes, I have promised. But why won't 
you coijae and see them ? I should like you 
to." 

" It can't be done, my little bird. You 
are sensible enough to understand why a 
gentleman in my position can't run the 
danger of forming intimacies with common 
persons." 

"But I am a common person," said 
the girl, archly challenging a contradic- 
tion. 

"You are a lady, and if you are not, I'll 
make you one. When you are away from 



The Woman. 123 



them, I want you to be well away. You, 
wouldn't like to be dragged down again." 

** ISTo — ^you are right, I dare say. Poor 
SaUy!'' 

" Not a word to her, mind. I'll have to 
bribe you, I see. What do you say to 
this?" 

He took from his pocket a gold bracelet, 
shining with bright stones, and held it up 
to the light. The giri uttered a cry of 
pleasure, but as she clasped the trinket she 
looked round in aflEright. Her glad ex- 
clamation was followed by a moan from Mrs. 
Lenoir, who staggered forward a few steps 
and sank, insensible, to the ground. 

"It is only a drunken woman," said the 
man. " Good night, my bird." 

The girl eluded his embrace and ran 
to the fainting woman, and knelt beside 
her. 

" She is not drunk," said the girl; " she 
looks worn out and tired. See how white 




124 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

she is. Poor creature ! Perhaps she is 
starving.'' 

Mrs. Lenoir, opening her eyes, saw, as in 
a vision, the face of the beautifol girl 
bending over her, and a smile of ineflBable 
sweetness played about her lips* But the 
words she strove to utter were breathed, 
unspoken, into the air, and she relapsed into 
insensibility. 

" Leave her to me," said the man ; " I 
will take care of her. You mustn't get into 
trouble: it's past the time you were ex- 
pected home." 

He raised the woman in his arms as he 
spoke. 

" You don't know her ? " he said. 

'* No ; I never saw her before," replied 
the girl. " You must promise me now : 
you'll not leave her in the streets ; you'U 
see her safely home." 

" I'll do more ; if she's in want, I'll assist 
her. Now, go ; I don't want to be seen by 
your — what db you call him ? — ^Mr. Dum- 



The Woman. 125 



brick, or by your friend Sally. Good night. 
She is recovering already. Eun away — 
and don't forget ; to-morrow night, at the 
same place.'' 

He threw his disengaged arm roimd the 
girl and kissed her. The next moment he 
and Mrs. Lenoir were alone. 



CHAPTEE XXV. 

SETH DUHBEICK BESOLYES XTPON HIS COURSE 

OP ACTION. 

Seth Dumbeick, sitting in the old cellar in 
which it seemed likely he would end his 
days, was the subject of Sally's anxious ob- 
servance, as she sat opposite to him, busy 
with her needle. Sally, in addition to the 
performance of her household duties, played 
no unimportant part in providing for the 
domestic necessities of the establishment, 
and the seven or eight shillings a week 
she contrived by hard labour to earn, was 
an important item to Seth, whose trade 
had fallen off considerably during the past 
few years. 

Sally was a* full-grown woman now, look- 



The Woman. 127 



ing older than her years ; but her nature 
was unchanged, and her devotion to the 
Duchess was as perfect as on the day when 
the girl was brought, almost an infant, to 
her mother's house. That was a happy 
time in her remembrance of it, far dif- 
ferent from the present, which was full of 
trouble. 

Setji Dumbrick's thoughts, to judge from 
his manner, were harassing and perplexing, 
and the cloud in his face was reflected on 
Sally's, as now and again she raised her 
eyes from her work to observe him. She 
knew the groove in which his thoughts 
were running ; it was a familiar one to both 
of them, and they could not see a clear 
way through it. Any time during the 
last five or six years it would have been 
a safe venture to guess, when they were 
sitting together, as they were sitting now, 
that their thoughts were fixed upon the 
theme which now occupied their minds. 

Silence had reigned in the cellar for fully 



128 Tiu Diuiuss of Rosemary Lane, 

half an hoar, and even then it was not 
broken nntil Seth, rising firom his seat, 
stood for a few moments before the fire, 
with his hands clasped at the back of his 
neck. 

'' There is bnt one way out of it, Sally,'' 
saidSeth. 

Sally instantly gare him her whole at- 
tention, and by a sharp glance indicated 
that all her wits were at his serrioe. 

" There is bnt one way out of it," he 
repeated, '^ and there's danger in that way. 
Bnt it's a matter of dnty, and it's got to 
be done. Supposing there was no duty in 
it, and no love, it's the only conrse, as 
it seems to me, left open to ua." 

He spoke slowly and with deliberation, 
as though, after long inward communing, 
he had settled upon a plan, and was de- 
tennined to carry it out 

" Ifs now — ah, how tnany years ago is 
It, Sally, since you came into my cellar and 
feUinto a trance?'' 



The Woman. 129 



** I can't count 'em, Daddy. It seems a 
lifetime." 

" Sixteen years it is. You were a little 
brown berry then, with not an ounce of 
flesh on your bones, sharp as a needle, 
and with a mind ten times as old as 
your body." He bent over and kissed her, 
and tears glistened in her eyes. *^And 
our Duchess was as like a bright angel 
in a dream as man's imagination can com- 
pass. I was a strong man then, a strong 
lonely man, happy enough in my way, I've 
no doubt, but with nothing much to look 
forward to, and with nothing outside my 
grisly self to love. Sixteen years ago it 
was. It seems a lifetime to you, you say, 
Sally. And it was only yesterday that I 
was a boy ! " 

He brushed the sentiment away with 
a light wave of his hand. 

**As we grow older, Sally, things that 
were far apart come nearer ; that is, when 
we get to a certain age — my age. Then 

VOL. in. K 



130 The Dtuhess 0/ Rosemary Lane. 




the young days, that appeared so fer away, 
begin to creep towards us, nearer and nearer, 
until the man of seventy and the boy of 
ten are very close together. With some old 
men, I don't doubt, it might be said that 
they die in their cradles. Is that beyond 
you, Sally ? '' 

" A little. Daddy. I can't understand it ; 
but you're right, of course." 

" Not to wander too fiar away," continued 
Seth, with a faint laugh, "it is sixteen 
years since you and the Duchess came to 
me, and that I undertook a responsibility. 
Keep a tight hold of that word, Sally ; I'm 
coming back to it presently. You haven't 
much more flesh on your bones now than 
you had then, but you're grown pretty con- 
siderable, and you're a woman. Sally, if 

I had a son, I shouldn't mind your marrying 
him." 

** Thank you. Daddy." 

" But you can't marry a shadow ; 

it wouldn't be satisfactory. Well, you're 



The Woman. 131 



a woman grown up. I'm a man, growing 
down; my hair's nearly white, and that's 
the last colour, my girl. It seems to me 
that I'm pretty well as strong as I was ; but 
I know that's a delusion. Nature has set 
lines, and the man that snaps his fingers at 
'em, or disregards 'em, is a fool. And I'm 
not one, eh, Sally? More r than/." 

He laughed faintly again ; but there was 
a notable lack of heartiness in the small 
flashes of humour which occasionally lighted 
up. his speech. It would have been more 
in accordance with his serious mood had 
they not been introduced ; but habit is a 
master, not a servant. 

^* 80 much for you and me, Sally. 
There's another of more consequence than 
both of us — our Duchess. When I first set 
my eyes on her, I thought I'd never in all 
my life seen so beautiful a picture. We 
had plenty of happy days then; and we 
must never forget how much we owe her. 
We should have been a dull couple, you and 

K 2 



132 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

me, without her. She was like light in our 
dark little room, and when I had trouble- 
some thoughts about me, the sight of her 
was like the sun breaking through dark 
clouds. Do you remember, Sally, when she 
was ill, and you watched over her day and 
night ? " 

" You too. Daddy." 

" I could do nothing ; I had the bread to 
earn. Dr. Lyon said your nursing, not his 
medicine, pulled her through ; and he was 
right. Do you remember our holiday in 
the country — ^the rides in the wagon, and 
the rambles by the sea-shore ? What plea- 
sure and happiness we enjoyed, Sally, was 
all through her. I can hardly think of 
her as anything but a child ; but, as IVe 
said, Nature has set her lines; and our 
Duchess is a woman — ^the brightest and most 
beautiful the world contains ; and whether 
that beauty and brightness is going to be 
a curse or a blessing to her, time alone can 
teU.'' 



The Woman. 133 



"Not a curse, Daddy!" cried Sally, 
dropping her face in her hands. " No, no ; 
not a curse ! '' 

" God knows," said Seth, with his hand 
resting lightly on Sally's shoulder. "If 
you or me could do anything to make it a 
blessing we'd do it, if it brought upon us 
the hardest sacrifice that ever fell upon 
human beings. I say that of myself, and 
I know it of you. But I'm a man, with a 
a wider experience than yours, and I can 
see farther. Feeling is one thing ; fact is 
another. To put feeling aside when we 
talk of our Duchess is out of the ques- 
tion ; but let us see how far fact goes, and 
what it will lead us to." He looked 
down upon his garments with a curious 
smile ; they ^ were old and patched and 
patched again. Sally, with apprehension 
in her glance, followed his observance of 
himself. Then, with an expression of pity 
and reverence, he turned to Sally, and 
touched her frock, which was worn and 



134 '^^^ Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 



faded. "Your only frock, Sally," he 
said. 

" What of that ? " she exclaimed, with a 
rebellious ring in her voice. *^ It's good 
enough for me." 

"WeVe got to see this through," he 
returned, taking her hand in his, and 
patting it so gently that her head drooped 
before him. " You wouldn't fetch much at 
Bag Fair, my girl. All that belongs to you, 

on and off, , would fetch perhaps three 

farthings. Now let us look at something 
else." 

" Daddy, Daddy ! '' she cried, as she 
walked to the dark end of the cellar ; " what 
are you going to do ? " 

He replied by dragging forward a trunk, 
which he placed between Sally and himself. 
It was locked, and he could not raise the 
lid. Taking from his pocket a large bunch 
of keys, he tried them until he found one 
that fitted the lock. 

" I borrowed these keys of the locksmith 




The Woman. 135 



round the comer/' said Seth, as he opened 
the trunk ; "I told him what sort of a trunk 
it was, and he said I'd be sure to find a key 
in this lot to fit it." 

The trunk was filled with clothes. Before 
laying his hand upon them, Seth, with a 
steady look at Sally, said, 

" I doubt, Sally, whether there's anybody 
in the world you know better than you 
know me." 

" There is no one. Daddy." 

" It has been a pleasure to me to believe 
that you love me." 

" There's only one I love better than you, 
Daddy." 

** Our Duchess." 

"Yes." 

" But in addition to love, you have some 
other feeling with respect to me. Shall I 
try to put it in words ? " 

" If you please, Daddy." 

"From what you know of me, you 
know I would not be guilty of a mean or 



136 The Duchess 0/ Rosemary Lane. 

dirty action. You know that I would 
sooner have my hands cut off than give any 
one the power to say, ^ Seth Dumbrick, you 
are a scoundel and a sneak.' " 

" I am certain of it, Daddy." 

" Well, then. Don't you think anything 
like that of me because of what I'm doing 
now. Sally, I'm doing my duty. Fm 
doing what will perhaps save our Duchess 
from what both you and me are frightened 
to speak of to each other. If this man that 
she's keeping company with — this gentle- 
man, as she's spoken of at odd times, when 
I've tried to coax her to confide in me 
— this gentleman that meets her secretly, 
and is ashamed or afraid to show his face 
to me that stands in the light of a father to 
the girl he's following — if this gentleman 
is a gentleman (though his conduct don't 
say that much for him), and means fairly 
and honourably by our girl, then all's well. 
But IVe got to satisfy myself of that. I 
should deserve the hardest things that 



The Woman. 137 



could be said of me if I let our child walk 
blindly into a pit — ^if I, by holding back, 
assisted to make her beauty a curse 
instead of a blessing to her. Do you under- 
stand me ? '' 

" I think I do/' 

" If," said Seth, with a tender animation 
in his voice, "this gentleman wants to 
marry her, and sets it down as a hard and 
&st consideration, that she should tear her- 
self away from us who love her, and who 
have cared for her all these years — if he 
says to her, ^ I am a gentleman, and when 
we are married you will be a lady ; and as 
such you must never speak another word to 
the low people you've lived and associated 
with from a child ; ' if he says this to our 
Duchess, and we happen to know it, and 
that it's for her good it should be so, neither 
you nor me would step in her way. How- 
ever sorry we should be, and lonely without 
her, we should say, 'Good-bye, Duchess, 
and God bless you ! We'll never trouble 



138 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 



you nor your husband with a sight of our 
feces again.' Would that be in your mind 
as well as in mine, my girl ? '' 

"Yes," replied Sally, with a sob. 

" But we've got to make sure of that — 
and there's only one way to come to it, as 
our girl keeps her tongue still, and her 
thoughts shut from us. When I accepted 
the charge of her, I accepted a responsibility, 
and I'm not going to run away from it like 
a coward, because the proper carrying of it 
out will bring a sorrow to my heart that 
will remain there ^ to my dying day. Do 
you think now I may look over what's in 
this trunk?" 

"I am certain you'll do what's right. 
Daddy." 

He gave her another tender glance, and 
proceeded to examine the trunk. It was 
filled with a girl's finery, of a better quality 
than that which belonged to a person in the 
Duchess's position in life. Lace collars and 
cuflfe, feathers for hats, gloves, and under- 



The Woman. 139 



clothing of a fine texture. Sally's face grew 
paler as the articles were carefully lifted 
from the trunk by Seth, and placed upon the 
table. 

" There are things here you've never seen 
before, Sally ? " 

Sally nodded, with lips compressed. 

Seth took from the trunk a long soft 
package, containing a piece of bright blue 
silk, sufficient for a dres8. 

^*Did shje ever show you this?" asked 
Seth. 

"No," said Sally, with trembling fingers 
on the silk. " How beautiful she will look 
in it ! " 

In a comer of the trunk was a small box 
made of cedar- wood. Opening it, Seth took 
out various articles of jewelry, and gazed at 
them with sad eyes. 

" These should be the belongings of a 
lady, Sally. Our girl is being prepared for 
the change. Is it to be one of joy or 
sorrow ? " 



I40 TJu Lhtciiss cf Rastatarj Latu^ 

At the \f^XffaL of tlie eedar-wcod box was 
a small packet of letters^ addiesaed to flie 
Docfaeas. Sedi heshated. Tbe leeeqit of 
fliese letters had beei hidden from him. 
They were addieased to the DuchesB at a 
post-oflSce a mile distant from Bosemaiy 
Lane. He debated with himself whether 
he had a ri^t to read them. ^' If I wore 
her £ither.^ he thooght, "^ die right would 
be dearly mine. As it is^ the right is mine. 
I am her guardian and protector.^ 

He read them in sQence ; they were 
lore letters^ expressing the most passionate 
adoration for the Duchess, and filled with 
TOWS and promises enough to distract the 
mind of any girl in her position. Apart 
from the expressions of lore they contsdned, 
there were other disturbing elements — such 
as the circumstance of the letters being 
written on paper bearing a crest with Latin 
words around it. Sally followed Seth's move- 
ments with wistftd eagerness, but he did 
not enlighten her as to the contents of the 




The Woman. 141 



letters. He returned theiin and the trinkets 
to the scented box, and replaced in the 
trunk with studied care all the articles he 
had taken from it. Then he locked and 
carried the trunk to the comer of the cellar 
again. 

" It may be," he said, after a short con- 
templative pause, '^that our Duchess has 
really attracted the love of a gentleman. 
Such things have occurred, produced by 
&ces and figures less beautiful than those of 
our Duchess." 

" Then the change will be one of joy ! " 
cried Sally, with a brighter look. 

" You know what that means, Sally. It 
means separation from us. You have a 
good memory, my girl ? " 

" Oh, yes." 

" Carry your mind back to the holiday 
we had in the coimtry. Do you think you 
can recall all that occurred in those few 
happy days ? " 

"Shall I try?'' 



142 Tlu Ducfuss of Rosemary Lane. 

" Yes — just run ttem over." 

^^ Our packing up the night before ; 
getting up early in the morning and meeting 
the wagon ; trotting out of the dull streets 
into the beautiful country — ^I can hear the 
jingle of the bells on the horses' necks — ^the 
gardens, the lanes, the lovely floweis, and 
the waring com ; the names of the horaes, 
Daisy and Cornflower — is that right, 
Daddy ? - 

^^Go on^ Sally. You have a capital 
memorv/* 

m 

*^'Our stopping at the public-house, and 
having dinner in the garden; our getting 
into the wagon again^ with a lot of fresh 
hay to $et on ; our tK>tting on and on till 
we cuue to another public-house, called the 
World's End — I thou^t it sudi a strange 
name^ and that we were iteaUv gifting to 
the end of the world ^'^ 

^^i>ne momenta Salhr. Be&re we came 
10 tlK" World'$ £2kL, we saw a great park 




The Wonia7i. 143 

with splendid iron gates at the entrance. I 
asked what place it was -" 

"And the wagoner said it was called 
Springfield." 

"That's right, Sally; go on. What a 
memory you've got ! " 

" Getting down at the World's End, and 
of its being quite early. Then you took us 
for a walk, and on the way we met a gipsy 
woman " 

Sally paused. She remembered perfectly 
well that the gipsy had predicted that a 
great trouble would fall upon her through her 
love for a woman yoimger than herself, more 
beautiftd than herself, that she loved, and 
loved dearly ; and that then the gipsy had 
said to the Duchess, " Show yourself, my 
beauty." Sally did not wish — for the 
reason that it might be of disadvantage to 
the Duchess — to recall these details to Seth, 
who might have forgotten them — as indeed 
he had, his mind being fixed on a particular 
point which Sally's memory had not yet 



144 T^he Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

reached ; but not the less startling to her was 
the conviction that the gipsy's words were 
coming true. Coming true ! Had they not 
been already verified by the altered relations 
between herself and the Duchess ? It 
smote her keenly to reflect that for a long, 
long time past the Duchess had exhibited 
towards her no mark of affection, and that 
now she was hiding from her knowledge the 
secret of a love which might tear them 
asunder for ever. But Sally was not prone 
to selfish musings ; her generous nature 
was always ready to find excuses for the 
girl-Mend to whom she had been sister and 
mother ; and although her heart was aching 
sorely, and yearning for confidence and 
sympathy, she laid no blame on the cause 
of her sorrow. What more could she desire 
than that the Duchess should become a lady, 
and enjoy the life she sighed for? "I dare 
say," thought Sally, " that she will let me 
see her now and again, when no o^e is near 
to make her ashamed of me." To her own 



The Woman. 145 



>> 



» 



future Sally gave no thought ; love of an- 
other kind had not yet stirred her soul with 
its enthralling influence. 

" And while we were talking to the 
gipsy," said Seth, " a lady and gentleman 
came up to us." 

" Yes, yes ; I remember."' 

" Do you remember what kind of a 
gentleman ? *' 

" I didn't like him, Daddy.^ 

" Nor I. Now as to his name.' 

Sally pondered, but could not call it to 

mind. 

" If I mention it, you will know perhaps. 

Was it Temple ? 

" Yes, oh, yes ; I remember now. 

" Sally, would you like to know who has 

written all those letters to our girl, and 

who is her gentleman lover ? " 
" Of course I should. Daddy." 
" His name is Arthur Temple." 
"Not the Mr. Temple we met in the 

country ! " exclaimed Sally clasping her 

VOL. in. L 



» 



>9 



146 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 



hands in a kind of despair. " He must be 
an old man by this time." 

Seth could not help smiling sympa- 
thetically. This dismay at the thought of 
an old lover for their Duchess was very 
intelligible to him. 

"No, it cannot certainly be that Mr. 
Temple. But it would be a strange thing 
if Arthur Temple should turn out to be his 
son. However, that has to be discovered. 
Sally, I have made up my mind what to 
do; and you may depend that it will be 
for the good of the Duchess." 

" You mustn't interfere with her, Daddy. 
She won't put up with it." 

*^ She will not know what I am about ; 
what I do shall be done secretly. Cer- 
tainly it is my duty not to allow this to 
go on any further without an understand- 
ing of some sort. To arrive at this I 
must set a watch upon her." 

** Oh, Daddy I if she should see you ! " 

"She shall not see me; I will take care 



The Woman. 147 



of that. Sally, another thing has to be 
done ; we're to enter into a compact. Not 
a word of all this to the Duchess/' 

" 1*11 be as mum as a mouse/' 

"And if things turn out right for the 
Duchess, we must twist our minds into 
thinking that they have turned out right 
for us. It will be dull here without her, 
but if the love of an old man can make 
it brighter for you, Sally — 



» 



A little choking in his voice compelled 
him to pause, and turn his head. The 
contemplation of this change in his life, 
now that he was an old man, and worse off 
in a worldly way than he ever remem- 
bered himself to be, brought deep sadness 
upon him. All the dreams he had indulged 
in of a bright future for the Duchess, some 
warmth from which would shine upon 
himself, had faded quite away. But 
warmth and light came to him from another 
quarter. A thin arm stole around his 
neck, and a dark loving face was pressed 

L 2 



148 The Dtuhess of Rosemary Lane. 

close to his. He drew the grateful woman 
on his knee, and the few minutes of silence 
which ensued were not the unhappiest 
that had been passed in the dingy old 
cellar. 

" And now, Sally,'* he said, kissing her, 
"what weVe got to do is our duty — 
straight, my girl, as we can do it — and to 
hope for the best." 




CHAPTEE XXYI. 



OK THE WATCH. 



The evening following this conveirsation, 
Seth Dumbrick, going out while the 
Duchess was still at home, watched for 
her at the comer of a convenient street, 
and when she appeared, followed her so 
as not to be observed. It was a fine dry 
evening, and the Duchess walked swiftly 
towards the west of London. At the 
Mansion House the girl entered an omni- 
bus, and Seth climbed to the top. She 
alighted at Charing Cross, and tripped over 
to Trafalgar Square, where she was imme- 
diately greeted by a man whose face Seth, 



150 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 



being compelled to keep at a safe distance, 
could not distinguish. There was no diffi- 
culty in following the pair ; and it needed 
only ordinary caution to prevent being 
detected. The Duchess and her companion 
walked onwards through the Haymarket 
to Eegent Street, pausing frequently at 
shop- windows, and once they entered a 
cafe, Seth waiting for them in the street. 
Resuming their walk, they strolled to 
Oxford Street, and then turned back 
towards the Strand. It was half-past seven 
by the time they reached that wonderful 
thoroughfare, down which they strolled, 
until they came to the door of the Strand 
Theatre* This they entered, and were 
lost to Sethis sight. Noticing which way 
they turned, he followed, and asked the 
price of admission. A gentleman in a 
white tie, who was standing by the small 
window where the money was taken, loftily 
informed Seth that the pit and gallery 
were round the comer. 



The Woman. 151 



" But," said Seth, " I want to go where 
the lady and gentleman who have just 
passed through have gone." 

"To the stalls?" inquired the gentle- 
man in the white tie, in a tone of sur- 
prise. 

'^ Yes, to the stalls," replied Seth. 

" Can't admit you," was the rejoinder. 

"Why?" 

" Not dressed." 

Seth glanced at his common clothes, 
and with a slight shrug and a little ironical 
smile, pardonable imder the circumstances, 
took the indicated direction to the pit and 
gallery. He paid for admission to the 
pit, and, soon after he eutered, succeeded 
in discovering where the Duchess was 
seated. She was in the stalls with her 
companion, and their backs were towards 
him. When Seth entered the pit, he 
found it very full, and he could only obtain 
standing room; necessaiily, therefore, his 
discovery of the Duchess was made with 



152 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

some difficulty, and from where he stood 
it was impossible for him to observe her 
closely. Indeed, from the surging of the 
audience, and the goings to and fro, she was 
often not visible to him. He had no heart for 
the performance, which caused a running 
fire of laughter and merriment in all parts 
of the theatre,, and before its termination 
he left the place, afraid lest in the last crush 
he should miss the Duchess. He lingered 
patiently in the Strand, near the box- 
entrance of the theatre, until the people 
came out, and was successful in catching 
sight of the Duchess and her companion, 
whose evening dress was covered by a 
light overcoat. When they had disen- 
gaged themselves from the throng, they 
paused, and from the opposite side of the 
street Seth noted that a discussion was 
taking place between them, the man 
persuading, the Duchess refusing. At 
length the Duchess cut short the disputed 
point by running away from her companion 



The Woman. 153 



with a light, laugh. He hastened immedi- 
ately after her, and arm-in-arm they wended 
their way to Eosemary Lane, followed 
warily by Seth. There they parted, after 
more than one kiss, which caused Seth to 
knit his brows ominously. When he was 
alone, the man took from his pocket a 
cigar-case, which, notwithstanding the 
distance that separated them, Seth ob- 
served was made of silver. Lighting a 
cigar, the Duchess's lover strolled leisurely 
along till he came to a cab-rank, whence 
he hailed a cab. This was what Seth 
feared. Quickly hailing another, he gave 
the driver instructions to follow, without 
laying himself open to observation, pro- 
mising extra payment if this were done. 
His cab pulled up in one of the most 
fashionable quarters of the west of London. 
As he was paying the fare, he asked the 
driver the name of the street, and saw 
his girl's lover walk on a few yards, 
and pause at a great house, which he 



154 T^he Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 



presently entered. Then Seth walked up 
the steps, and noted the number. 

His labours for that night were almost 
at an end; there was still a small matter 
to be attended to. He waited until he 
heard the policemen's measured footMl, 
and falling in by his side in a natural 
manner, struck up a conversation. He 
did not find it difficult, being in some 
respects a shrewd actor in the busy world, 
to ingratiate himself into the good graces 
of the official. It was a cold night, and 
he proposed a friendly glass. The police- 
man, who knew an honest man when 
he came across one, and who was generally 
luckier than Diogenes, affitbly entertained 
the proposition. Over the friendly glass 
the conversation was continued, and suffi- 
cientily mellowed, the policeman took 
possession of his beat again, accompanied 
by Seth. They passed the house which 
the Duchess's lover had entered. Seth had 
artfully directed the conversation into the 



The Woman. 155 



desired channel, and as they passed the 
house, he asked, 

"Who Kves there? A great man, I 
should say.'' 

"You'd say right," replied the police- 
man. " That's Mr. Temple's house." 

"Hasn't he an estate in the country, 
called Springfield? I was in that quarter 
some time since, and I heard it belonged 
to the great Mr. Temple." 

"I've heard as much myself. Yes, 
Springfield's the name of his country 
seat, now you mention it. I wish I was 
as well off as him." 

"I wish so, too," said Seth Dumbrick, 
as he walked away. " Good night." 



CHAPTEE XXVII. 

SETH DUMBRICK PAYS A VISIT TO MR. 

TEMPLE. 

It happened that, during the week in 
which these occurrences took place, Mr. 
Temple was absent from London. On the 
night of his return he was more than 
usuaUy elated. Everything was prospering 
with him. Arthur's ingenuous manner 
found favour wherever he appeared, and 
his introduction into society promised the 
most favourable results. In addition to 
this cause for satisfaction, Mr. Temple had 
reason to believe that his public services 
were likely, nay, almost certain, to be 
rewarded with a title, which his son would 
bear after him. 



The Woman. 157 



"There is practically no limit to our 
fortunes, my boy," he said to Arthur; "the 
current will carry us on." 

To which Arthur replied, 

" I trust I shall not disappoint you, 



sir." 



"I am satisfied as to that," said Mr. 
Temple. " My chief desire now is that you 
should choose a definite career. I do not 
wish to press you, but the sooner you 
enter public life the wider will be your 
experience and the greater your chances. 
Our name shall be a famous one in the 
country." 

On his return to his town house, Mr. 
Temple, after a few minutes' conversation 
with his wife, proceeded to the library. 
He had been expected home the previous 
evening, and his correspondence for two 
days lay upon his writing-table. He looked » 
over the letters hurriedly, and paused at 
one which drove the colour from his cheek 



158 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane, 



and which he read twice over. It was 
brief and to the point : 

" The writer of these lines, Seth Dum- 
brick by name, wishes for a personal inter- 
view with Mr. Temple, on a matter of vital 
importance to himself and the gentleman he 
addresses. He will call on Mr. Temple at 
eight o'clock this evening, and hopes not to 
be denied." 

Mr. Temple glanced at the clock. It 
was a quarter-past eight. He struck a beH, 
and a servant entered. 

" Is any person waiting to see me ? " 

" Yes, sir ; he is in the hall.'' 

" Giving any name ? " 

"Dumbrick, sir." 

" Did he come yesterday ? " 

*' Yes, sir, and was informed you would 
not return till to-night." 

" What sort of a person ? " 

"A common person, sir — ^a very conunon 
person." 

" Show him in." 



The Woman. 159 



The next moment Seth Dumbrick entered, 
hat in hand, and stood near the door. From 
his seat at the table, Mr. Temple desired 
him to come near. Seth Dumbrick obeyed, 
and the men faced each other. 

" You are the writer of this note," said 
Mr. Temple haughtily. 

" I am, sir." 

" Explain it, and briefly. Stay — have I 
not seen your face somewhere ? " 

Seth Dumbrick made no immediate reply. 
He had no desire to recall to Mr. Temple's 
memory the circumstances of the unpleasant 
interview that had taken place between 
them many years ago. He himself had 
recognised Mr. Temple the moment he en- 
tered the room, his cause for remembrance 
being the stronger of the two. Mr, Temple 
had an imerring memory for faces, but his 
meeting with Seth Dumbrick lay so far in 
the past, and his life was so varied and full 
of colour, that he could not for the moment 
connect the face with the circumstance. 



i6o The Duchess of Rosemary Leim. 

*' Answor mo," ho said peremptorily, 
'' Ilavo I not Boon yoii bofore ? '' 

** You havo, »ir." 

<c Wliore ? " 

**Yonr8 ttgo — at Springfield — when I, 
with two ohildron, was taking a holiday in 
the oountry." 

'^ All, I roinomhor porfeotly. Our meet- 
ing was not a pleasant one.'' 

*'It was not my fault that it was not 
so.'' 

" I remombor also that you gave me the 
address of an inn at which you wore stop- 
ping, and that I informed you I should call 
there. I did call, and you had gone. You 
ran away, I presume.'* 

"I followed my course, being a free man, 
and not bound to wait for strangers." 

•* It is a matter of no importance. Two 
children I Yes ; I should know them again, 
I think. One, a child, with a very beauti* 
ful face. Is she living ? " 

'^ She is, sir ; as u woman, though she is 



The Woman. i6i 



scarcely yet out of her girlhood, she is more 
beautiful than she was as a child. I am 
here on her behalf." 

" On her behalf I " exclaimed Mr. Temple, 
taking the note from the table. " You use 
the words, * vital importance.' " 

"They are correctly used, as you will 
perhaps admit when you hear me." 

" I will hear you. Of vital importance 
to yourself and to me ? " 

" That is so, sir." 

Mr. Temple considered for a moment. 
His career had been one which necessitated 
rapid conclusions. 

" Write your name, trade, and address on 
this paper." 

Seth Dumbrick did as he was desired. 
His manner was closely watched by Mr. 
Temple, who expected to detect a reluc- 
tance to give the information. But Seth 
Dumbrick wrote unhesitatingly, and with 
decision. 

" This is your true name and address ? " 

VOL. in. M 



1 62 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

" I have no other. I am here to speak 
the truth.'' 

" Say what you have to say." 

" I must trespass upon your patience, but 
I will be as brief as it is possible for me 
to be. It is very many years ago— I cannot 
recall how many ; the age of the child, if it 
can be ascertained, will verify that — ^that a 
little girl was strangely and mysteriously 
brought into my neighbourhood by a man 
whom I never saw, and who remained in 
Eosemary Lane for probably not longer than 
a couple of hours. This stranger took a 
room in the house of acquaintances of 
mine " 

" Write on the paper, beneath your own 
name, the name of these acquaintances." 

Seth Dumbrick wrote the name of Ches- 
ter, which Mr. Temple did not glance at. 
He was more engaged in observing the 
manner in which the man before him sub- 
mitted to the tests he demanded. Seth con- 
tinued : 



The Woman. 163 



" The stranger took a room that was to 
let in the house, and paid, I believe, two 
weeks' rent in advance. The night that 
he took the room he disappeared from the 
neighbourhood, and was never more seen in 
it." 

" Leaving the child ? " 

" Leaving the child. She was, as it were, 
a kind of legacy to people who had sufficient 
burdens of their own to bear. Not long 
after the occurrence the persons who occu- 
pied the house fell into misfortune, and the 
woman into whose care the child was thus 
strangely thrown was compelled by circum- 
stances to give up her house, and take a 
situation in the country.^' 

" All this bears upon your errand to 
me?" 

" Every word of it. The woman had a 
little girl of her own, a few years older 
than the foundling, who contracted an ab- 
sorbing love for the deserted stranger. It 
is not necessary to relate how I, upon the 




much .< J»" '^^^ k» ^•'^'^^ 



The Woman. 165 



herd with. You see, sir, that I do not 
rate myself and those of my order too highly. 
I have given her what education it was in 
my power to bestow. She is in all respects 
a lady, and as beautiful a girl as this 
city contains. As is natural, so bright a 
being has attracted the attention of those 
in my station of life — ^I do not say in hers 
— who desire matrimony. But she has 
consistently declined to entertain their pro- 
posals, and has, so to speak, set her head abov^ 
them — ^as she has done from the first, in 
every possible way. Whether this comes 
irom her parents, who, for the credit of 
human nature, I hope are dead, it is beyond 
me to say. There are mysteries which we 
weak mortals are powerless to probe. I 
come now, sir, to that part of my story 
which most nearly touches the object of my 
visit to you." 

" Before you proceed, favour me with the 
name of this child." 

"I must ask you to receive it in all 



X atx^ 



prmcipaliy ^«o\ fancy, «»^ "^ ° «,e aie 

"'' 7 nf extravagance fc^^ ^ ^o 
moments of ex ^^ dold ^ 

"^ the ^^^ ^^' A tei, left ^"^' 

^«^^ ' A aud deserted ^et, ^ 

^'^T lt^^^^°"l L bears tvo 
t::-S^o.er,.as.e 

reoo..o.tot.e^ed.t..^ 

,o^notet«tae." ^^.ttiact^dtJx^ 

i'As 1 «^* suitor8i» «^y «* v^, 

4.-«« of »a°^y AAftf ear to au. 

attetvtion 01 ^ ^ deal 

^txtion ot a 6 position ^ 



The Woman. 167 



'' None," 

" The person I speak of," proceeded Seth, 
with a heavy sigh, "meets my child regu- 
larly, and has given her such gifts as only 

* 
a gentleman could aflford to give." 

" An old story," interrupted Mr. Temple. 

** Continue to hear me patiently, sir. I 
have but little more to say. This gentle- 
man writes constantly to her, but not to the 
home in which she has lived from childhood. 
I am here to ask you whether it is possible 
that such an intimacy will result in a 
manner honourable to the girl whom J, an 
old and childless man, love with all the 
earnestness and devotion of which I am 
capable — ^for whose happiness I would lay 
down my life as surely as every word I have 
spoken to you is the honest and straight- 
forward truth.'* 

" And it is to this point you must come 
at once," said Mr. Temple, whose tone 
would have been arrogant but for the effect 
which the genuine pathos of his visitor pro- 



1 68 The DtuAess ofRositnary Lane. 

duced upon him, against his will. " What 
interest can I have in the name of this 
gentleman, who, seeing a pretty girl who is 
flattered by his attentions, follows her, and 
fells into the trap she lays for him " 

But if his speech had not trailed off here, 
it would have been arrested by Seth's 
indignant protest, 

** Stop ! " he cried, in a ringing voice. 
^^Hear first the name of the man who is 
wooing my child, and who, firom your 
own sentiments — ^fi>r nature transmits good 
and eyil qualities from fether to son — ^is 
seeking to entrap an innocent girl ! " 

At this moment these two men — tiie one 
so high in the world, the other so low- 
changed positions. It was Mr, Tempi 
who cowered, and Seth Dumbrick wl 
raised his head to the light 

"Speak the name, then," said 1 
Temple, 

" Your soil— Arthur Temple ! " 

A cold smile served at once to I 



The Woman. 169 



Mr^ Temple's agitation and to outwardly 
denote the value he wished Seth Dumbrick 
to believe he placed upon his statement. 

" And you/' he said, with contemptuous 
emphasis, " have connived at this intimacy, 
and have come to me to place a price 
upon " 

Again he was interrupted indignantly 
by Seth. 

"You mistake. I have never, so that 
I could recognise it, seen the face of 
your son; I have had no conversation 
with my child upon the subject, and she 
does not know of my visit to you. She 
has not confided in me." 

" How, then, do you happen to be aware 
of the particulars you have narrated so 
fluently ? How have you gained the know- 
ledge of the letters and the gifts ? " 

"Having only the good of my child 
at heart, and being better versed in the 
villainies " 

" Be careftd of your words." 



1 70 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

" If your son has no honourable intention 
to\rards my girl, the word is in its 
proper place. Being better versed in the 
ways of the world than she, a young and 
inexperienced child, can possibly be, I 
exercised my rightful authority, and searched 
her trunk, to discover what she was con- 
cealing from me. I found the tokens there. 
The letters are written on paper stamped 
with a crest, surroimded by Latin words 
which I do not imderstand." 

Mr. Temple, in silence, handed Seth a 
sheet of note-paper. 

*^ The crest and words," said Seth, putting 
on his spectacles to examine them, '^ are the 
same as these." 

*^ Is that all you have to say ? " 

" All — with the exception that three 
nights ago I witnessed the meeting betweea 
your son and my child." 

" How did you discover where he Uvea ? " 

'^ I followed him to this house, and learnt 
that it was yours." 




The Woman. 171 



*^ You would have made a good detective, 
my man." 

" What I have done," said Seth simply, 
*^ has been prompted and guided by love." 

Mr. Temple, shading his face with his 
hand, was silent a little. He could not 
doubt the truth of Seth's statement, and his 
desire was to save his son from awkward 
consequences which might result from his 
imprudence. He raised his eyes, and said, 
in a hard tone, 

" Tour price ? " 

Seth Dumbrick stared at Mr. Temple, 
and his frame shook with agitation. 

"Tour price," repeated Mr. Temple, 
" for those letters ? " 

" Are you asking me," said Seth, resting 
his hand heavily on the table to obtain some 
control over his words, " to put a price upon 
my child's honour ? '* 

" I will have no insolent construction 
placed upon my question. Ton have heard 
it. Answer it." 



lya The Diuhess of Rosemary Lane. 

" It should have blistered your tongue," 
said Seth, with bitter emphasis, " to utter 
it. Is that answer sufficient ? " 

"Quite," replied Mr. Temple, striking 
the beU with a fierceness he would haye 
shown had it been human and his enemy. 
A servant entered. 

"Turn this person from the house," he 
said sternly. 

The servant stood before Seth Dumbrick, 
who knew that there was no appeaL But 
before he took his departure, he said 
sternly, 

" If Divine justice be not a delusion, you. 
will live to repent this night. Into your 
home may come the desolation you would 
assist in bringing into mine.'' 

He had time to say no more, for at a 
peremptory gesture from Mr. Temple, the 
servant forced him from the room. 

Mr. Temple instantly touched the bell 
again, and another servant entered. 

" Is Richards in ? " 



The Woman. 173 



" Yes, sir," 

" Send him to me immediately." 

Almost on the instant, Bichards made his 
appearance. A man of the same age as 
his master, tall and spare, with a manner 
so habitually watchful that, although he 
seldom looked a person in the face, not a 
movement or expression escaped his notice. 

" A man is now being shown out of the 
house," said Mr. Temple hurriedly, " whom 
you will follow to his home. Lose not a 
moment. Ascertain every particular relat- 
ing to himself, his life, and his domestic 
history. You understand ? " 

Richards nodded. He was a man not 
given to the wasting of speech. 

"This is a secret and confidential ser- 
vice," said Mr. Temple. " Breathe not a 
word concerning it to a soul but myself— 
understand, not to a soul but myself — not 
even to my son. Hasten now, or you may 
miss him." 



CHAPTEE XXVIIL 



RICHARDS, THE CONPIDENTIAL MAN. 



EiCHAEDS, a secret, silent man, had been in 
Mr. Temple's service for a great number of 
years. Long before Mr. Temple had achieved 
distinction, he had observed in this man 
certain qualities which he deemed might be 
useful to him ; and he took Eichards into his 
service. He found the man invaluable, and 
had entrusted to him many delicate com- 
missions, all of which had been carried out 
to his satisfaction. The men were necessary 
to each other. As the possessor of secrets 
the revelation of which, in former years, 
might have proved awkward, the master 
was bound to his servant by a strong, 
albeit somewhat dangerous tie. Eichards 




The Woman- 175 



made use of his power without showing 
his hand, by asking from time to time 
for additions to his salary, which were 
freely accorded. Eichards had saved money, 
and the service wfts an easy and, to a great 
extent, an independent one. 

He had a high opinion of Mr. Temple, 
which he kept to himself; he had, also, 
a low opinion of Mr. Temple, which he kept 
to himself. He had a knack of keeping his 
opinions to himself, and of devoting himself, 
to all appearance, entirely to the business 
entrusted to him — which he invariably 
contrived should add to the weight of 
his purse. Mr. Temple had a high opinion 
of Eichards; so high that he had said to 
his son, 

" Arthur, if at any time you want any 
business of a delicate nature transacted, 
which you would rather not appear in 
yourself, employ Eichards." 

Arthur thought the suggestion strange, 
as he could not conceive what delicate 



id 



176 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

business he should require attended to, which 
he should be ashamed to appear in; but a very 
short time was sufficient to convince him 
that his father was wiser than he. Certain 
circumstances occurred which caused him, 
a fortnight since, to call in the help of 
Bichards; and it thus happened that, at 
one and the same time, Elchards was 
employed on confidential commissions for 
the father and the son. A singular, but 
not unusual phase in these commissions wtis 
the absolute silence imposed upon Richards. 

•'Not a word of this to my father," 
Arthur Temple said. 

The stipulation was not needed. Richards 
was the soul of secrecy. 

On the same day Richards presented two 
written reports — one to the father, the other 
to the son. 

The report presented to Mr. Temple ran 
thus ; 

" In accordance with instructions, I have 
to report — 



The Woman. 177 



" The name of the man is Seth Dum- 
brick. He is a cobbler, and Uves in Eose- 
mary Lane. 

" Rosemary Lane is in one of the poorest 
quarters of London. All the people who 
live there are poor. 

" Seth Dumbrick is a single man, and 
has never been married — either directly 
or indirectly. 

" He has resided in Rosemary Lane for 
thirty years or more. When he first took 
up his quarters there, he was not a young 
man. He lives in a cellar, and bears a 
reputation for eccentricity. 

" He has two persons living with him — 
both young women, whom he has brought 
up from childhood. They are not his 
children. One is named Sally Chester. 
Her parents, when she was a child, lived in 
Rosemary Lane ; they fell into misfortune , 
the father died in the hospital ; the mother 
took service in the country. They had 
another child, a son. His name is Edward, 

VOL. in. N 



178 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

or, as he was familiarly called, Ned. This 
son was a thief ; he went, or was sent away, 
to Australia. Upon the precise manner of 
his going my information is not clear. 

"The other person living with Seth 
Dumbrick goes by the title of the Dnchess 
of Bosemary Lane; she has no Christian 
or surname. Nothing is known of her 
parentage. 

" Sally Chester is a plain person. The 
Duchess of Eosemary Lane is a beauti- 
ful woman. 

" It is whispered about in the neighbour- 
hood — (please to note that I am not account- 
able for rumours, and that I place no 
construction upon them; I merely report 
what I hear) — it is whispered about in the 
neighbourhood that the Duchess of Eose- 
mary Lane will one day marry a gentleman, 
and that she will become a fine lady. She 
herself has this anticipation ; and for this I 
am accountable, for I had it from her own 
lips. 



The Woman. 179 



" Seth Dumbrick is very poor, and Sally 
Chester takes in work to help to support 
them. The Duchess of Eosemary Lane does 
not work. 

" I have nothing further to report at 
present." 

The report presented to Arthur Temple 
ran thus : 

"To a certain point my report is now 
complete, and I present it, being prepared 
to prosecute the inquiry, and carry it on 
from day to day, if I am instructed so to 
do. 

" So that there may be no mistake about 
my imderstanding of the instructions given 
to me, I recapitulate them. 

"On the 17th of last month you sent 
for me, and informed me that you were 
being robbed. You had missed at various 
times articles of jewelry, the particulars 
and description of which I wrote down from 
your dictation, for the purpose of identi- 

N 2 



J0 



^ 



1 80 The Dtuhess of Rosemary Lane. 

fication. The principal of the articles 
were a diamond breastpin, a ring with 
sunk diamonds and emeralds, a silver cigar- 
case. I inquired if you were being robbed 
of anything but articles of jewelry. You 
replied, not to your knowledge. I inquired 
if you were careful in looking over your 
banking account. You replied that you 
were not in the habit of -doing so. I re- 
quested that you should look into the 
matter before 1 commenced to prosecute my 
investigations. 

*^0n the following day, the 18th, you 
sent for me, and informed me that you had 
looked into your banking account, and that 
you had been robbed of money by means 
of forged cheques. It was what I expected. 

" I went with you to the bank, and made 
certain inquiries, and took possession of the 
forged cheques which had been cashed, and 
of five genuine cheques which had also been 
cashed, and which I required for my own 
purposes. In accordance with my wish the 



The Woman. i8i 



bank was not made acquainted with these 
forgeries. I inquired whether you had a 
suspicion of any person. You replied that 
you had no suspicion. 

** I then left you to consider the matter. 

" On the following day, the 19th, I re- 
quested you to adopt a certain course of 
action. I desired that you should send by 
your valet, James Kingsford, a letter ad- 
dressed to the manager of your bank, stat- 
ing that for the next two months, you did 
not intend to draw any one cheque for a 
larger sum than £20. I desired that this 
letter should, as though by accident, be 
given unsealed into the hands of your valet, 
James Kingsford. This was done, and the 
result justified my anticipation. From the 
19th to the 26th, two forged cheques were 
presented, each for a sum under £20. They 
were paid. The total amount of the forged 
cheques reached £674. 

" On the 26th, I desired you to send 
another letter, imperfectly fastened, to the 



1 82 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 



bank manager by your valet, stating that, 
pending certain arrangements you had in 
contemplation, you did not intend to draw 
any further cheques upon your account with- 
out due notice being given. From that 
day no forged cheques were presented for 
payment. 

" During the whole of the time I was 
proceeding with my secret investigation, 
and have continued it until this date, with 
this result. 

"A person of the name of Ned, or 
Edward Chester, has lately returned from 
Australia, where he resided for ten or twelve 
years. Of his career there I have no infor- 
mation; the time employed by me in this 
investigation not having been long enough 
to obtain it. He is an Englishman, bom in 
London, and living during his boyhood, and 
afterwards at intervals, in Rosemary Lane ; 
a common street, in a common locality, in 
the east of London. Since his return he 
has not made himself known to any of hie 



The Woman. 183 



former associates, with the exception of one, 
whom I will presently mention, and who 
can scarcely be called an associate. It is 
requisite now, so that you shall be in pos- 
session of the fullest information, to make 
you acquainted with certain particulars of 
his life. It is by no means necessary tiiat 
I should explain how I have gained the 
knowledge of these particulars. You may 
rely upon their exactness. 

" Ned Chester, before he left for Aus- 
tralia, was a thief, but at the same time 
a person whose manners were superior to 
those of his associates. He took a strange 
fancy, as a young man, to a child, a little 
girl, living in Rosemary Lane, of whose 
parentage nothing was known. When he 
left for Australia, this little girl was pro- 
bably not more than seven or eight years 
of age, but I do not pledge myself to a year 
or two. While he was in Australia he sent 
her money, which the man who has brought 
her up received and spent. It seems that, 



■ 'i^ 



184 Tke Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

while he was in Australia, his mind was 
filled with thoughts of this little girl, who 
was a beautiful child, and has grown 
into a beautiful woman, and his great 
ambition was to come home and renew his 
acquaintanceship with her. This he was 
enabled to do, after an absence of ten or 
twelve years. 

" His desire was not to renew his inti- 
macy with his former associates in Rose- 
mary Lane, and he has not even presented 
himself to his sister Sally Chester, who is 
in ignorance of his return to England. 
"Watching his opportunity he introduced 
himself to the young woman, whose beauty 
as a woman made a greater impression upon 
him than it did as a girl, and, with some 
difficulty, struck up an acquaintanceship 
with her. It was his intention to introduce 
himself in his proper name, having an 
idea that she must have been thinking of 
him during his absence as much as he 
had been thinking of her ; but he amused 



The Woman, 185 



himself at first by conversing with her as 
a stranger. He soon discovered that the 
young woman had scarcely a recollection 
of him, and that she had never bestowed a 
thought upon him ; he discovered, also, that 
she was intensely dissatisfied with her posi- 
tion in life, that she cared little for those 
with whom she was living, and less for the 
neighbours by whom she was surrounded, 
and that she had a fancy in her head 
that, because her parents were not known, 
she must certainly be a lady. He took 
his cue from these confidences, which he 
managed to extract from her, and be- 
fore they parted he resolved upon his 
course. He told her he was a gentleman, 
and when she asked for his name, he gave 
the name of Arthur Temple. He pledged 
her to secrecy upon this point, on the grounds 
that he did not wish to have anything to 
do with her friends and neighbours, and 
that family reasons required that their 
intimacy should for a time be kept from 



1 86 The Dtuhess of Rosemary Lane. 



the knowledge of his father. He repre- 
sented that, upon his fether*s death, who, 
he said, was an old man, he would come 
into possession of a large fortune. 

"Under the name of Arthur Temple, 
he meets the young woman regularly. 
He has given her presents, and has 
frequently written to her upon paper 
bearing your father's orest. 

" Events are thickening, and are coming 
to a climax, in my opinion. I will ask you 
to note that this is the only opinion I 
have ventured to express. 

** The name by which the young woman 
is known is The Duchess of Hosemary 
Lane. 

* The man who is passing bimsftlf upon 
her as Artiiur Temple is your valet, James 
Sangsford. You will thus perceive that 
Ned Chester, James Kingsford, and the 
fictitious Arthur Temple, are one and the 
same person. 

" It is this person, also, who has uttered 




The Woman, 187 



the forged cheques, and who has stolen 
the missing jewelry. 

"This report is longer than I desired, 
but to place you in possession of all the 
particulars, I have found it impossible to 
abbreviate it." 

The receipt of this communication caused 
Arthur Temple great excitement. It ap- 
peared to him that it was the real com- 
mencement of his life's experience. The 
loss of the money, and the discovery of 
the man who had robbed him, did not so 
much affect him as that portion of the 
narrative which related to the beautiful 
girl whom Ned Chester was deceiving. 
His imagination was stirred, and his 
chivalrous heart prompted him to de- 
fend and save her. He went at once 
in search of Bichards, with the man's 
statement in his hand. Richards received 
him deferentially, and with some conscious- 
ness in his manner that he knew he 



♦ 1 88 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

should be sought. Arthur Temple plunged 
immediately into the subject. 

" I have no reason to doubt the truth 
of your report, Eichards." 

" You need have none, sir." 

"It 2i? true?" 

" Every word of it." 

" How have you obtained so much in- 
formation in as short a time ? " 

"My method — if you will excuse my 
saying so much — is my own ? " 

"Undoubtedly. Perhaps you have had 
some conversation with the rogue who 
robbed me." 

" I have ; he is not aware of the position 
I hold with respect to your father and 
yourself." 

" The means in this case," said Arthur 
Temple, in a tone of slight dissatisfaction 
" possibly justified the end." 

"You must judge of that for yourself, 
sir. I have no doubt in my mind." 



The Woman. 189^ 



*' You have seen the person who has 
brought up this girl ? " 

" I have ; and have had some talk with 
him. His name is Seth Dumbrick; he 
Uves in Eosemary Lane." 

" That accounts, then, for the whimsical 
title of the girl." 

"Possibly, sir." 

" You have seen her ? " 

" I have." 

" And she is, as you say, pretty ? " 

" I have not used the word pretty. She 
is beautiful." 

"Eichards," said Arthur Temple, with 
excitement, " the girl must be saved ! " 

Eichards did not reply. He was a 
practical man, and was not given to 
sentimental action on the spur of the 
moment. 

" It is my duty," continued Arthur, 
" to save her. Will you assist me ? " 

Eichards hesitated. The reports he had 
written to Mr. Temple and Arthur were 



#190 The Duchess of Rosemary j^^.. 

straightforward and to the point. In so 
fiu", he had done his duty. But there was 
a matter he had not touched upon in 
those reports — a discovery he had made 
which had astonished and perplexed him. 
That he himself was culpable in the 
matter did not affect him; sufficient that 
he was not punishable ; and if it came to 
the value of one man's word against 
another's, he knew full well that, in this 
instance, he held the winning card. He 
was an old man, and he was tired of 
servitude. He had saved sufficient money 
to pass the remainder of his days in 
comfort; and perhaps, for the peculiar 
service he was enabled to render Arthur 
Temple — a service the nature of which 
held no place in Arthur's mind — the young 
man would generously remember him. 
Then, again, it was an act of justice whid 
chance had placed in his hands the powf 
to perform ; such an act, brought about 1: 
himself, might condone for many a piece 



The Woman. 191 

dirty work in the past. It is not necessary 
to pause and inquire by what process of 
reasoning these thoughts, leading to a 
definite and startling course of action, 
formed themselves in his mind. They came 
at a time when most men in shackles, having 
the power to free themselves, would gladly 
have availed themselves of the power. There 
were reasons which, in the conclusion he was 
arriving at, undoubtedly played an impor- 
tant part. One of these was that it was 
possible, if he did not make himself the 
principal instrument of rendering atone- 
ment for a great wrong, the discovery 
might be made in a manner disadvantage- 
ous to himself. Another reason, although 
he was scarcely conscious of it, was that 
he had been deeply touched by the beauty 
of the Duchess, and it is not unlikely that, 
if Arthur Temple had not stepped forward, 
he would have taken upon himself the 
task of rescuing her from the clutches of 
an unscrupulous villain. 



J 



192 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 



While he was engaged in these reflec- 
tions, Arthur Temple paced the room 
excitedly. 

" She must be saved, Richards. There 
is a mystery here which it has fallen to 
my lot to clear up. Your story being 
true, this man has imposed upon me as 
well as robbed me. He told me, before 
I engaged him to accompany me to Eng- 
land, that there was a woman at home 
whom he had loved for years, and to see 
whom would complete the happiness of 
his life. The trickster ! As for the money, 
let it go. But his villainy to an innocent 
girl shall not escape punishment. Once 
again, will you assist me, or must I work 
alone ? " 

Eichards adopted the chivalrous course; 
partly for the reasons already given, and 
partly because of the excitement it would 
afford. 

" I will assist you, sir,'' he said. 



CHAPTEE XXIX. 



STARTLING DISCOVERIES. 



Ned Chester fulfilled the promise he gave 
to the Duchess that he would see Mrs. 
Lenoir safely to her home. When the 
exhausted woman recovered from her faint- 
ing condition, and was sufficiently strong to 
lean on his arm and walk slowly along, he 
said to her, 

" You may thank your stars I was near 
you when you fell. I am going to help 
you home. Where do you live ?" 

The strange voice, and the rough manner 
of the man — ^for Ned was not always on his 
holiday behaviour, and the worse side of his 
nature invariably exhibited itself when there 
was nothing to be gained — caused Mrs. 

VOL. in. 



i 



194 The Lhuluss of Rosemary Lane, 




Lenoir to shiink from him; but, depriyed 
of his support, diie almost fell to the ground 
again. 

"Dont be a fool ! '' cried Xed; " you are 
not strong enough to stand alone. Where do 
you live ? " 

"Who are you?'' 

"I am a gentleman," he replied in a 
boastful tone. 

His manner gave the lie to his assertion, 
and Mrs. Lenoir, with her fine instinct, knew 
that the man was a braggart. 

" Yes, yes — ^but your name ? " 

"Xerer mind my name — ^it won't en- 
lighten you. Xow, are you coming? " 

" No/' said Mrs. Lenoir ; " leave me.'' 

" What will you do if I take you at your 
word ? " he asked brutally. 

" I will wait here— I will creep on till I 
find A^_till I see again the fiice I sawa 
Kttle while ago, bending over me. Heaven 
^ffl giTe me strength— Heaven will give 
me strength ! " 



The Woman. 195 



" In which case," thought Ned, '^ I shall 
get myself into hot water with the Duchess. 
That will never do." 

He adopted a more conciliatory tone. 

" You foolish creature ! You've been 
dreaming, and you'll bring trouble on 
yourself." 

" Dreaming ! " murmured Mrs. Lenoir, 
pressing her hands to her head. "For 
mercy's sake, do not tell me so ! Nay, but 
it is not true. Let me think — ^let me think. 
No — it was not a dream. I followed her 
and her companion for miles through the 
snow, till my strength was gone. But it 
has come again," she said, with hysterical 
dobs, which she struggled with and checked J 
" it has come again, and I can go on. As I 
lay on the ground I saw her face — ^the face 
I have dreamt of for many weary years — 
bending over me ! " 

" It was my face you saw," said Ned, 
beginning to think that the woman was 
mad. 

2 



196 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

*^ No, no," said Mrs. Lenoir, with a waa 
smile, *' it was the lovely face of a girL" 

Ned's vanity and triumph in his conquest 
trapped him. 

" She has a lovely face, has she not ? " 

"It was no dream, then," cried Mrs. 
Lenoir eagerly. 

" No ; it was no dream. Now, let me 
help yon home. I promised her I would 
do so." 

"You did!" sobbed Mrs. Lenoir; "she 
thought of me — ^and pitied me ! O, my 
heart!" 

"You'll be going off again, if you don't 
mind. I tell you I promised her, and I 
must keep my promise." 

" Why must you keep your promise? " 

Ned's boastful spirit was entirely beyond 
his control. 

" Isn't the reason plain ? We love each 
other. Is that sufficient ? K you will let 
me help you home, I promise that you shall 
see her again, if you would like to." 



The Woman. 197 



" It is what I have lived for. You 
promise me— solemnly ! » 

" On the honour of a gentleman," said 
liTed, laying his hand on his heart. " Will 
that content you ? " 

" It must — it shall. You are right — I 
cannot walk without assistance. This is 
my way, I think. And you love her — and 
she loves you ! I shall see her again ! 
When ? It must be soon ! It mu8t be 
soon ! " 

" It shall be — in a day or two. We 
are getting along nicely now. Ah, there's 
a cab — that's lucky." 

He called the cab, and put Mrs. Lenoir 

in it. 

" What street do you live in ? " 
She told him, and he mounted the box. 
In less than a quarter of an hour the 
cab stopped at her home. Desiring the 
driver to wait for him, Ned opened the 
street-door with the latch key she gave 
him. 



igS The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

" Shall I help you to your room ? " he 
asked. 

"No; stay here in the passage. I will 
get a light ; I want to see your face." 

She crept slowly upstairs. The passage 
was narrow, and, cold as the night was, 
Ned, a strong and sturdy man, took off 
his light overcoat and held it on his arm. 
Presently Mrs. Lenoir returned, with a 
lighted candle in her hand. 

She raised the candle, and, shading her 
eyes with her hand, looked steadily at him. 
As she gazed into his face, a troubled ex- 
pression stole into her own. It was not 
the face of a man to whom she woidd have 
cared to entrust the happiness of any one 
dear to her. 

"Well," he exclaimed, nettled at her 
intent observance of him, " you will know 
me again." 

" I shall know you again," she said, as 
he turned from her. " You can have no 
objection now to tell me your name." 



The Woman. 199 



" Temple— Arthur Temple." 
" Great God ! " 

He did%iot hear the words, nor did he 
see the candlestick drop from her hand, 
leaving her in darkness. He slammed the 
street-door behind him, and, resuming his 
seat on the cab, drove westwards. 

A few minutes afterwards, a lodger com- 
ing home to the house in which Mrs. Lenoir 
resided, found her lying senseless in the 
passage. He was an old man, and had not 
strength to raise her. Knowing that she 
was more intimate with Lizzie than with 
any other person in the house, he knocked 
at the girPs door, and, waking her, told her 
of Mrs. Lenoir's condition. Lizzie hurriedly 
threw on her clothes, and hastened to the 
suffering woman. Assisted by the man, she 
carried her to her room, and Mrs. Lenoir 
was soon in bed, attended by the most will- 
ing and cheerful of nurses. The care Lizzie 
bestowed on her was not bestowed in vain, 
and when Mrs. Lenoir opened her eyes, 



\ 



200 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane, 

she saw a bright fire burning in the room, 
and the girl standing by her bedside, with 
a oup of hot tea in her hands. M!^. Lenoir 
drank the tea eagerly, and took the bread 
and butter which Lizzie's gentle persua- 
sion induced her to eat. Lizzie asked no 
questions ; she was learning how to manage 
the strange woman, whose secret sorrow 
had made so deep an impression upon her 
touder heart. 

^' Yott are feeling better, Mrs. Lenoir?" 

^"^ Much, better and stronger, thank you, 

iiw». You are very kind to me, my 

'^ U: Yvit will let me, I will sleep with 

Ma:^^ L«m»>ir odSi^ied no reastance to the 
^ry^^jfi^ ;ttid preseuLtiLy tiie gbd and the 
wvtiMtt wt»K ty m$ lasfe by sm^ 

^^ IHm't tmnd waking me^ Mesl Lenoir, 

'Xoi my df^io;. Ln»^ yom will not 



The Woman. 201 



in you. It will relieve me to speak 

Mr 

" Oh, I can keep a secret, Mrs. Lenoir." 

" I believe," said Mrs. Lenoir very 
slowly, "that I have this night seen the 
face of my daughter." 

" Then, you have a daughter ! " cried 
Lizzie, in a tone of delight. 

" A daughter, my dear, whom I have not 
seen since she was a little child — ^and who 
they told me was dead. But I have seen 
her — I have seen her, if there is truth in 
nature ! After all these years I have seen 
her — ^when she most needs a mother's care 
and counsel. I am praying now for the 
hours to pass quickly that I may fold her 
to my heart." 

" Is she coming to you to-morrow, Mrs. 
Lenoir ? " 

" There is my misery. She knows no- 
thing of me, and I am in ignorance where 
she lives. But I am promised — I am 
promised! God will help me — He will 



202 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

surely help me, after my long years of an** 
goish ! " 

She said not another word, and Ldzzie 
was soon asleep ; but Mrs. Lenoir lay awake 
through the greater part of the night, with 
a prayer in her heart as fervent as any ever 
whispered to Heaven from the depths of 
tribulation. Towards morning, nature as- 
serted her claim, and slumber fell upon her 
troubled soul. 

It was almost noon when she awoke ; 
and Lizzie was bustling about the room. 

" I am going to stop with you till you're 
better," said the girl ; " perhaps I can help 
you. m take care not to be in the way 
if Fm not wanted." 

Mrs. Lenoir accepted the service, feel- 
ing the need of it at this crisis. She 
was up and dressed, and breakfast was 
over, when Lizzie's quick ears took her 
out of the room. She returned imme- 
, diately. 

^^ A gentleman is asking for a woman 




The Woman. 203 



he saw home last night to this house. It 
must be you, by his description." 

" Let him come in, Lizzie." 

Lizzie looked at I^ed Chester with ad- 
miration. In her eyes he was every inch 
a gentleman, with his fine clothes and gold 
chain and a diamond ring on his ungloved 
hand. 

" This is Mrs. Lenoir," she said. 

**Mrs. Lenoir!" he repeated. "Ah, 
well, I didn't know the name. Are you 
better ? " 

He had commenced speaking in a free 
and familiar tone, such as a man adopts 
who is addressing one for whom he has 
no great feeling of respect, but before he 
had uttered even these few words his 
tone altered. Mrs. Lenoir had taken 
unusual pains with her dress, and she 
presented so diflterent an appearance from that 
which he expected — she looked so gentle 
and lady-like — that he was compelled into 
a more deferential and respectful manner. 



\ 



204 TAe DucAess of Rosemary Lane. 

"I am glad you are come," said Mrs. 
Lenoir; ^'I was a£raid you might forget 
your promise, or that it had been given 
lightly." 

" What promise ? " he asked. 

"That I should see her again — ^the 
young lady who was with you last night." 

" Oh, the Duchess ! " he exclaimed 
involuntarily, and the next moment biting 
his lips at the betrayal. 

" The Duchess ! " echoed Mrs. Lenoir, 
in amazement. 

" A pet name," he said quickly. " You 
shall see her again, as I promised. But 
I have come on a different matter. I lost 
a silver cigar-case last night. Have you 
got it?" 

Mrs. Lenoir rose, and gazed at him in 
perplexity and fear. 

" I will swear I had it about me as I 
assisted you home. When you left me in 
the passage I took off my overcoat, and 
it dropped out of my pocket perhaps. I 



The Woman. 205 



don't mean anything worse than that. Did 
you find it ? " 

*^I don't understand you; I have not 
seen it. Lizzie, did you see anything in 
the passage when you came down to me last 
night?" 

"No," replied Lizzie, who had listened 
to the conversation with intense curiosity. 

Ned Chester considered in silence, un- 
certain for a moment how to act. The cigar- 
case, which had been a gift to his master, 
Arthur Temple, bore on it an inscription 
which might betray him, and he thought 
it not unlikely that Mrs. Lenoir intended 
to retain it, so that she might compel the 
fulfilment of his promise. There were ob- 
vious reasons why he could not run the risk 
of making the theft public, for he enter- 
tained no doubt that Mrs. Lenoir had robbed 
him. Since the previous night he had had 
reason to suspect that his position was 
growing perilous. His young master's man- 
ner had suddenly changed towards him, and 



2o6 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

he had ahnost determined not to return to 
Mr. Temple's house. With this partially- 
formed resolve in view, he had seen the 
Duchess a short time before his visit to 
Mrs. Lenoir, and proposed flight to her. 
He had taken good care of himself with 
respect to money, and he had about him 
between five and six hundred pounds. His 
scheme was to go to Paris with the Duchess, 
and thence to America, where he would be 
safe, and where he believed his peculiar 
talents might prove of service to him. At 
all events, with the ready money at his 
command, a few months of enjoyment were 
before him, and that prospect was suffici- 
ciently alluriug. But he had found the 
Duchess strangely reluctant to agree to 
the flight, and he had to use all the blandish- 
ments at his command to prevail upon her. 
At length she had yielded, on one condition. 
She would not accompany him alone, nor 
would she go without the society of one of 
her own sex. An instinct of affection for Sally 



The Woman. 207 



had stolen into the Duchess's breast on her 
lover's sudden and startling proposition, and 
she suggested that Sally should accompany 
her in her flight. To this he gave a vehe- 
ment refusal, and the Duchess fell back on 
another expedient. In his boastful moments 
he had told her that he had conflded to 
some of his lady relations the secret of his 
attachment to a poor girl, and that, charmed 
with *' the romance of the thing," they had 
promised to assist in reconciling him with 
his father, should any discovery take place. 
The Duchess, to his annoyance, remembered 
this, as she remembered every word he had 
spoken with reference to himself and his 
fine Mends; and she stipulated that, as 
he objected to Sally, one of these ladies 
should accompany her. Seeing no way to 
the accomplishment of this end, he had 
argued with her and endeavoured to talk 
away her resolution. But the more he 
argued, the more obstinate the Duchess had 
become, and he was compelled to promise 
that her whim should be complied with. 



2o8 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

^^ And mind," she had said to him before 
they parted, " your lady Mend and I mnst 
go away from London by onrselves. You 
can meet ns in the country if you like, but 
when you come we must be together." 

With this understanding they had parted 
an hour before his visit to Mrs. Lenoir. 

As he stood considering these matters in 
the presence of Mrs. Lenoir, who, uneasy at 
the turn the conversation had taken, was wait- 
ing anxiously for him to speak, a happy idea, 
as he believed it to be, flashed across his 
mind. Why should he not come to an un- 
derstanding with this woman, whose appear- 
ance was so lady-like and whose manners 
were so gentle, and palm her oflf upon the 
Duchess as one of his lady friends who had 
consented to accompany her in her flight? 
It was not at all likely that the Duchess, 
supposing Mrs. Lenoir were well and 
fashionably dressed, would recognise in 
her the woman whose face she had seen 
but ' once, and that but for a moment or 



The Woman. 209 



two, and in a dim, uncertain light. Once 
away from England, and free from the 
fears of detection which were beginning to 
oppress him, he would experience no diffi- 
culty in getting rid of the encumbrance, 
and pursuing his journey to America with 
the Duchess alone. His eyes brightened 
as he looked into Mrs. Lenoir's troubled 
face, and said, with just a glance at 
Lizzie, 

" I should like to have a few words with 
you in private." 

** Leave us, Lizzie," said Mrs. Lenoir. 

With a little toss of her head, indicative 
of a grudge against the stranger for depriv- 
ing her of the means of gratifying her 
curiosity, Lizzie left the room. 

" Mrs. Lenoir," said Ned, casting about 
in his mind for the proper words to use, and 
quite unconscious that he was the object 
of a deeper scrutiny than he had bestowed 
upon the woman before him ; " Mrs. Lenoir 
by the bye, that is your name. 

VOL. in. p 



i 



2IO The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

"Have you reason to doubt it?'' en- 
quired Mrs. Lenoir with quickened breath. 

" No ; I only asked out of idle curiosity," 
adding, with familiar assurance, " Mrs. 
Lenoir, you are a poor woman." 

Mrs. Lenoir made a motion with her 
hand, which denoted that the appearance 
of her room afforded a sufficient answer to 
\ki!6 question. Her eyes never left his face, 
as though they were seeking to • see the 
workings of his mind. 

" You need give yourself no uneasiness," 
proceeded Ned, " about the cigar-case." 

" I know nothing whatever of it." 

" I am not implying that you do." 

" Of course you are not — as a gentleman 
speaking to a lady." 

"By Jove! that is the way to put it," 
cried Ned, gratified at this apparent recog- 
nition of his quality. "As a gentleman 
speaking to a lady ! It is reasonable that 
I should wish to find it — ^not for its value ; 
that is not of the slightest consequence, but 
because it was a gift, from my — ^my ^^ 



The Woman. 211 



*^ From your " 

*^ From my father. One wishes to keep 
such presents as those." 

" Naturally." 

" You don't speak like a common woman 
—you don't look like one — and you are 
just the woman I want." 

" Has what you are saying anything to do 
with the young lady I saw last night ? " 

" You have hit it again. It has to do 
with her. Shall I go on ? " 

Mrs. Lenoir was keeping a stem control 
over her feelings. She saw that the man 
was acting a part ; she saw that he was no 
gentleman, and that it behoved her to be 
careful if she wished to serve the girl who, 
without any reason but that bom of an 
almost despairing hope, she believed to be 
her child. 

" Yes ; go on." 

" I am going to give you my confidence," 
he said grandiloquently. 

" I am waiting to receive it." 

r 2 



212 The Dtuhess of Rosemary Lane. 

" Well, you know, we are in love with 
each other." 

^^Tou told me so last night." 

" But our positions are diflFerent. I am a 
gentleman, and she is " 

"A lady." 

^^In one way, a lady; but you see she 
has been brought up in a common way, 
and among common people that it wouldn't 
do for me to mix with. My family 
will be mad enough with me as it is, but 
I dare say I can smooth them over after a 
bit, if I can show them that the girl has 
entirely thrown off her old companions and 
friends." 

^' What is it you propose to do, then ? " 

" To run away with her." 

Mrs. Lenoir pressed her hand to her 
heart to still its wild beating ; to her compre- 
hension, quickened as it was by love, the 
villainy of this man was clearly unfolding 
itself; his tone, his words, his manner, were 
all betraying him. 



The Woman. 213 



*^ Gentlemen have run away with poor 
girls before to-day/' he said, with an airy 
contemplation of the ring on his finger. 

'' Oh, yes.'' 

"But the little witch refuses to elope 
unless I provide her with a lady-companion." 
A grateful light was in Mrs. Lenoir's eyes, 
and a feeling of devout thankfulness in her 
heart. " Well, now, if you'll agree to one 
thing, you shall be that lady-companion." 

" I will agree to anything." 

" You're a sensible woman. It isn't much 
to do. You must let the girl understand 
that you're a relation of mine — an aunt, say. 
She has set her foolish little mind upon it, 
and it won't do any harm to humour her. 
Do you agree ? " 

" Yes ; when shall I see her ? " 

" The sooner the thing's done the 
better. I hate shilly-shallying. I'll send 
you a message this afternoon perhaps." 

'*Had you not better write or come to 
me?" 



2 14 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

"I mayn^t be able to come; Pll write. 
My plan is this : that you and the young 
lady shall meet at a railway station, and 
take a train to the place I fix upon ; I will 
follow by an after train, and pick you up in 
the country." 

'* That is a good plan," said Mrs. Lenoir, 
with secret joy at the opportunity he was 
aflFording her of rescuing the girl from the 
snare he had laid for her. " I will prepare 
myself." 

"Make yourself presentable; dress like 
a lady, that's it. Here's some money — 
buy what you think you'll want — a fashion- 
able dress and a spicy bonnet — ^it will help 
you to play your part ; you've got good 
taste, I see." He placed two five-pound 
notes on the table. " Now I'm off." 

"You will not mind my asking you a 
question," said Mrs. Lenoir, with lips that 
quivered, in spite of herself. 

" Ask away." 

" Has the young lady no mother ? " 



The Woman. 215 



The words were uttered very slowly. 
It seemed to her that her life hung upon 
his answer. 

" Oh, make your mind easy about that I 
She has no mother — never had one," with 
a coarse laugh. " She might be a princess for 
all that's known about her. But that's no 
business of yours." 

" No. You will be sure to write to me ? " 
"Do you think,'* said Ned, with a 
significant look at the bank-notes, "that 
Fd be such a fool with my money if I 
didn't mean what I've said ? Not likely I 
Take care and act the character well — 
tell her any stories you like about swell 
ladies and fine people — she likes to hear 
*em. Good-bye, aunty." 

With a familiar nod and swagger he 
passed out of the room. 

Almost before Mrs. Lenoir had time to 
recover her composure, she was rejoined by 
Lizzie, whose appearance betokened a state 
of great excitement. 



2 1 6 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

" Oh, Mrs. Lenoir/' she cried, " Charlie 
knows him — Charlie knows him ! " 

^* Knows whom ? " 

'^ The gentleman who has just gone out. 
Charlie ran round in his dinner hour to 
see me, and we were talking together in 
the passage when the gentleman passed. 
Charlie knew him directly, although it's 
years since he saw him, and although 
Charlie was only a boy at the time. His 
name's Chester — Ned Chester." 

" Lizzie, you are lifting a great weight 
from my heart. He gave me another name. 
Are you sure Charlie is right ? " 

^'Am I sure?" repeated Lizzie, with a 
saucy toss of her head. "Charlie is never 
wrong, and his memory for faces is some- 
thing wonderful." 

" Is Charlie downstairs ? " 

" No ; he has gone back to work." 

" Lizzie, will you help me if it is in your 
power ? " 

" Ah, that I wiU— gladly ! " 



The Woman. 217 



*' I have a presentiment that a great 
crisis in my life is approaching. I must not 
stir out of the house ; I am waiting for a 
letter." She took her purse from her pocket, 
and counted the money in it ; there were 
altogether but a very few shillings. " I 
want money, Lizzie," she said, casting her 
eyes rapidly around, and collecting all the 
small articles in the room upon which money 
could be raised. She retained but one 
article of value — a miniature of herself, set 
in a slender framework of gold. " Run 
and see what you can get upon these things, 
Lizzie; the desk was a valuable one in 
years gone by. I want every shilling I 



can raise." 



'^ I can lend you a little, Mrs. Lenoir." 

" God reward you, my dear ! I will take 
it. You shall be repaid, if I live." 

" I know that. Why, Mrs. Lenoir ! " 
she had caught sight of the bank-notes on 
the table. 

" It is traitor's money, Lizzie, left by the 



2i8 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

man who was here a few minntes since. 
A curse, instead of a blessing might &U 
npon me if I used one penny of it." 

At fire o'clock in the afternoon, Mrs. 
Lenoir receiyed the following note : 

^^Meet the yonng lady at the Lndgate 
Hill Station at half-past sik o'clock. You 
will find her waiting for you in the ladies' 
room. I have decided npon Seyenoaks as 
a good starting-place. I will see yon there 
to-night. 

« A. T." 




CHAPTEE XXX. 

THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. 

A FORTUNATE chance revealed to Seth Dum- 
brick the knowledge of the Duchess's 
flight many hours before she intended him 
to become acquainted with it. Both he 
and Sally had observed a strange and 
unaccountable excitement in the Duchess's 
manner, and had spoken of it in con- 
fidence to each other. She had been 
absent twice during the day, and when on 
the second occasion she returned, her 
restlessness was so marked that it com- 
municated itself to her friends. It was 
not without fear, nor without some sense 
of the ingratitude of the act, that the 
Duchess prepared secretly for flight, and 



220 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

more than once her courage almost failed 
her; but she fortified herself with the 
reflection that she could return at the last 
moment if she wished, and that she had 
time before her to retract. 

She had no real love for Ned Chester. 
She liked him, and had been led away by 
his attentions and flatteries, by the handsome 
presents he had given her, and by the 
belief that he was rich and a gentleman. 
All the sentiment that the future contained 
for her was that she would be able to 
live like a lady. In all other respects the 
page was blank, and her history would be 
written from experiences to come. 

Early in the afternoon there was a 
heavy fall of snow, which, from appearance, 
bid fair to continue through the night. In 
the midst of the storm, the Duchess stole 
away from Eosemary Lane. 

Within half a mile from home she entered 
a cab, as she believed unobserved. But 
Sally, who was at that moment returning 



The Woman. 221 



from the establishment which supplied her 
with needlework, saw the Duchess's face, 
as the cab drove swiftly off. The truth 
flashed upon her instantly; the Duchess 
had gone away from them for ever. 
Wringing her hands in despair, she ran 
after the cab, but it was soon out of sight, 
and seeing the hopelessness of pursuit 
she retraced her steps, and ran swiftly to 
Eosemary Lane to acquaint Seth Dum- 
brick with the circumstance. 

Mention has frequently been made of 
Mrs. Preedy. To this woman the Duchess 
had entrusted a letter accompanied with 
a bribe, and the instruction that it was 
not to be delivered to Seth until the 
following morning. In the course of the ' 
few anxious minutes which Seth (after 
hearing what Sally had to tell him) 
devoted to the endeavour to discover a 
clue in Eosemary Lane, he came across 
Mrs. Preedy. It needed no great shrewd- 
ness on his part to suspect, from the 



222 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

■ M ■ I I -- T * 

woman's important manner, that she had 
something to impart, and with a small 
exercise of cunning he extracted the letter 
from her. 

The mere receipt of it filled him with 
alarm. He hurried to his cellar, with 
Sally at his heels. 

" I wouldn't open it before the neigh- 
bours," he said to Sally, "for the 
Duchess's sake. They're only too ready 
to talk, and take away a girl's character." 

With this he opened the letter. The 
words were few : 

"I have gone away, and perhaps shall 
never come back. I will try and pay you 
and Sally for all your kindness to me. 
Don't blame me ; I cannot help what I am 
doing. When you see me again, I shall 
be a lady. Good-bye." 

They looked at each other with white 
faces. 

" It has come," said Seth, in a pathetic 
voice, "What we dreaded has come. 




The Woman. 223 



Our child has deserted us. God send that 
she is not being deceived; but I fear — 
I fear ! " He paced the cellar for some 
moments in anxious thought, and Sally, 
with all her soul in her eyes, followed his 
movements. Presently he straightened him- 
self with the air of a man who has a serious 
task before him. " I am going straight to my 
duty," he said. " Kiss me, my dear. What- 
ever a man can do, I intend to do, without 
fear of consequences." 

"Let me go with you. Daddy," implored 
Sally. 

^' Come along, then ; it will be as well, 
perhaps." 

No further words passed between them, 
and as quickly as it could be accomplished, 
the shutters were put up to Seth's stall, 
and he and Sally were riding to Mr. 
Temple's house. On his arrival there 
Seth demanded to see Mr. Temple. 

The servant conveyed the message to Mr. 
Temple, coupling it with the information 



224 ^^ DucheSs of Rosemary Lane, 



that the visitor was the person who had 
lately heen tamed from the house by Mr. 
Temple's orders. Mr. Temple ordered the 
servant again to expel him ; but the man 
returned, saying that Seth Dumbriek de- 
clared he miLBt have an interview, and pro- 
mised that he would not detain Mr. Temple. 
The secret of this lay in the servant having 
been bribed by Seth. 

'*The person is not alone, sir," said 
the servant ; "he has a woman with 
him." 

" Let him come in," said Mr. Temple ; 
" and you yourself will remain within 
call." 

" Now," said Mr. Temple haughtily, the 
moment Seth and Sally entered, *^ without a 
word of preamble, the reason of this intru- 
sion. You are, perhaps, aware that I 
could have you locked up for forcing your 
way into my house." 

"In that case," said Seth firmly, "I 
should be compelled, in the magistrate's 




The Woman. 225 



court, to make certain matters public. The 
press is open to a man's wrongs." 

" Clap-trap/' exclaimed Mr. Temple, but 
not without discomposure. " Come at once 
to your business with me." 

Seth handed to Mr. Temple the note left 
by the Duchess with Mrs. Preedy. Mr. 
Temple read it in silence, and returned it 
with the words, 

" How does this affect me ? " 

" My child has fled," said Seth. 

" How does that affect me ? " 

" Tour son is with her." 

^* I will satisfy you," said Mr. Temple, 
with a frown, "that you are labouring 
under a gross error." He touched the bell ; 
the servant answered it. " Go to Mr. Arthur 
Temple, and tell him I desire to see him." 

" He is not in the house, sir." 

" Has he been long absent ? " 

"Not long, sir," replied the man, who, 
through a fellow-servant, was enabled to give 
the information. " He left in great haste 

VOL. in. Q 

i 



2 26 Th4i Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

for the railway station, to catch a train, I 
heard." 

" For what place ? " 

" For Sevenoaks, sir." 

Mr. Temple was aware that Seth's lynx 
eyes were upon him, and that it would give 
the common man an advantage if he ex- 
hibited surprise. 

" Send Eichards to me." 

*' Eichards left the house with your son, 
sir." 

Throughout his life Mr. Temple had 
proved himself equal to emergencies. 

" You have nothing further to say to me, 
I presume," he said, addressing himself to 
Seth. 

" Nothing that your own sense of honour 
and justice does not dictate," was the 
reply. 

" It dictates nothing that you can have a 
claim to hear. There is the door." 

Seth had his reasons now for not wishing 
to prolong the interview. 



The Woman. 227 



" I will not trouble you any longer, sir. 
I know what kind of justice I might expect 
from you in such a matter as this. From 
this moment it is for me to act, not to talk. 
I have but this to say before I leave. If my 
child comes to grief through your son — if 
he inflicts a wrong upon her— I wiU devote 
my life to exposing both him and you." 

He quitted the room upon this, and, 
giving instructions to the cab-driver, bade 
Sally jump in. 

" Where are you going now. Daddy ? " 
asked Sally. 

" To Sevenoaks. We may yet be in time." 

The same train which conveyed him and 
Sally to Sevenoaks, conveyed Mr. Temple 
also. The men did not see each other. 
Mr. Temple rode first-class, Seth and Sally 
third. 

The snowstorm showed no sign of abate- 
ment ; steadily and heavily the white flakes 
feU. 

Q 2 



228 Tie Duciess of Rosewiary Lane. 



The finks niiidi £BUe weaves around 
human fir*^ were drawing doeer and cloeer 
aionnd the fives of the actors in this story ; 
ereiy yard that was traTersed hy the train, 
conveying Seth and Mr. Temple, strengthened 
the threads which for years had been so &r 
distant from one anoth^, that nothing but 
the strangest dicnmstance conld have pre- 
vented them from eventuaUy breaking. As 
Seth gazed from the window upon the £Edl- 
ing snow, he prayed that he might be in 
time to save the child of his love, or to 
assure himself that she was on the right 
track. To Mr. Temple the heavy snow&ll 
brought the memory of a night long buried 
in the past, when he had stood hidden near 
a quaint old church, while strangers' hands 
were saving from death the woman he had 
betrayed. And an uneasy feeling crept into 
his mind at the thought that the church was 
within a mile of the place towards which he 
was wending his way. 



k 



CHAPTEE XXXI. 

" WAITING FOR THE LIGHT TO SHINE UPON MY 

SOUL I " 

The thoughts which occupied the mind of 
Mrs. Lenoir and the Duchess when they 
met at the railway-station were of too 
disturbing a nature to allow of conversation. 
Only a few words were exchanged. Mrs. 
Lenoir, who was the first to arrive, accosted 
the Duchess immediately she entered the 
waiting-room. 

"You are the young lady I am to 
accompany to Sevenoaks ? '^ 

The uttermost power of her will could 
not prevent her voice from trembling. 

The Duchess glanced at the speaker, but 
her agitation prevented her from closely 



230 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

observing Mrs. Lenoir. She saw, however, 
that Mrs. L^ioir's dress and manner were 
those of a lady. 

"Mr. Temple told me I shonld meet a 
lady here," said the Duchess. 

" I saw him to-day," returned Mrs. 
Lenoir, " and it was arranged that I should 
oome to you." 

\ The gentle voice acted soothingly upon 
the Duchess. 

"I have the tickets; the train starts 
at a quarter to seven. What a dreadful 
night it is ! We must be quick, or we 
shall miss the train." 

** We have ample time," said Mrs. 
Lenoir, looking at the clock; "it is not 
half-past siK. You look &int and weary, 
my dear ; have you had tea ? " 

" No." 

" Come into the refreshment-room, and 
drink a cup. It will do you good." 

Every nerve in Mrs. Lenoir's body 
quivered as the girl placed her hand in 



The Woman. 231 



hers; they went together to the refresh- 
ment-room, where they drank their tea, 
and then, hurrying to the train, they entered 
a first-class carriage. The journey was 
made in silence; the carriage was frdl, 
and such converse as they could hold 
could not take place in the presence of 
strangers. The Duchess leant back 
upon the soft cushions and closed her 
eyes, and Mrs. Lenoir watched her 
with silent love. She saw in the 
Duchess's face so startling a likeness 
to her own when she herself was a 
girl, that words were scarcely needed to 
prove to her that her child was sitting 
by her side. But that she knew that 
all her physical and mental strength was 
required to compass the end she had in 
view, she could not have restrained her 
feelings. 

In due time they arrived at Sevenoaks, 
and Mrs. Lenoir inquired whether they 
were to wait at the station. 



332 Tki Duckiss 0/ Rosemuiry Lane, 

^Oh, nt^ aadd the Duchess^ haTiding 
m iH^er to MiSw LeiMMr. ^ Mr. Temple has 
written what we are to do/^ 

Mra. Lenoir read the instractioiis, to the 
effibet that when they reached Sevenoaks 
they were to take a fly and drive to an 
hotd, the ^Enrpire,' where, in abcordanoe 
with a tel^pram he had sent to the pro- 
prietor, they would find rooms prepared for 
them. 

^^Stay here a moment, my dear/' said 
Mrs. Lenoir. 

She went to a porter, and asked him 
whether the ^Empire' was a respectable 
hotel. 

" It's one of the best in Sevenoaks," 
was the reply. " Shall I get you a fly ? " 

" If you please." 

She quickly decided that the best course 
to pursue was to go at once to the hotel, 
where she could unravel the plot to the 
Duchess ; events would determine what was 
to follow. Before she rejoined the Duchess 




The Woman. 233 



she walked to a young man and woman, 
who* were standing on the platform a little 
apart from the throng, and spoke to them. 
This couple had travelled third-class from 
London by the same train ; Mrs. Lenoir had 
seen them at Ludgate Hill Station, but it 
had been understood between them that they 
should not appear to know each other. 

" You have proved yourselves good 
friends to me," she said to them hurriedly ; 
" we are going to an hotel called the 
* Empire.' Follow us at once, and be 
ready to come to me if I want you there." 

They signified by a gesture that they 
understood and would obey her, and then 
Mrs. Lenoir and the Duchess walked to 
the fly, and drove to the ' Empire.' 

They found the rooms ready, and the 
landlady herself led them up the stairs. A 
bright fire was burning, and everything 
presented a cheerful appearance. The 
Duchess took off her gloves, and Mrs. 
Lenoir assisted her to remove her hat and 



234 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

cloak, and removed her own hat and veiL 
Then, for the first time on that nightj the 
girl saw Mrs. Lenoir's face in a fuU, clear 
light She started back, with an exclama- 
tion of alarm. 

" I have seen you before ! " 

" Yes, my dear — ^but do not avoid me ; 
I implore you to listen to me ! It is not I 
who am deceiving you — indeed, indeed, it 
is not ! I am here for your good.'' 

" I do not understand," said the Duchess, 
looking vaguely around. " Mr. Temple 
said that a lady-relative would meet me at 
the station. Are you not a relative of 
his?" 

" I am not in any way related to the man 
who has been paying his addresses to 
you " 

" Of the gentleman, you mean," inter- 
rupted the Duchess, with a pride that was 
made pitiable by the doubt and suspicion 
that was mingled with it. 

*' As you will, my child. I will speak of 



The Woman. 235 



him presently. There is something nearer 
to ray heart which will break if you do not 
listen to what I have to say." 

" I cannot listen," said the Duchess, 
"imtil you prove in some way that you are 
not deceiving me." 

" Thank God, I have the proof with me. 
On the night you saw me lying senseless 
in the snow, this gentleman you call Mr. 
Temple was with you." 

" Yes, and when I left you he promised 
to help you home." 

"He kept his promise, and learned 
where I live. I had never seen him before, 
nor had he ever seen me ; we were utter 
strangers to each other. Yet to-day, this 
very morning, he came to me, and proposed 
that I should enter into a plot to betray you ! 
He proposed that I should present myself to 
you as his aunt, as a lady who was favour- 
able to his elopement with you, and that 
in this capacity I should accompany you 
here. For your good I consented — ^to save 



236 Til Duchiss of Rosemary Lam. 

joa I am bere. Sssy that yon belieye 
me.'" 

'^ Fart of wbat joa say fmat be tme; but 
yoa said yoa bare the proof with yon — 
what proo^ and what are yon going to 
prore ? " 

^ That this man is no graitleman — that 
he is a TiUain — and that his name is not 
Temple. On my knees— on my knees ! — I 
thank God that it is in my power to saye 
yon from the &tal precipice upon which 
yon are standing! Trust me — believe in 
me; I am a woman like yourself, and 
my life has been a life of bitter, bitter 
sorrow ! " 

She was on her knees before the Duchess, 
clasping the girPs hands, and gazing im- 
ploringly into her £Eice. Her strange passion, 
the earnestness of her words, her suffering 
gentle face, were not without their effect 
upon the frightened girl ; but some kind of 
6tubbomness to believe that her hopes of 
becoming a lady were on the point of being 




The Woman. 237 



overturned rendered her deaf to the appeal 
in any other way than it aflfected herself. 
The threatened discovery was so overwhelm- 
ing as to leave no room for pity or sympathy 
for the woman kneeUng before her. 

"Where is your proof?" asked the 
Duchess. 

Mrs. Lenoir started to her feet, and ring- 
ing the bell, gave a whispered instruction 
to the maid who answered it. In a few 
moments Lizzie and Charlie entered the 
room. They were the persons who came 
third-class from London, by the same train 
which conveyed Mrs. Lenoir and the 
Duchess to Sevenoaks; with some vague 
idea that she might need Charlie's testimony, 
Mrs. Lenoir had begged Lizzie to ask him 
to come. 

" Lizzie," said Mrs. Lenoir, " will you 
tell this young lady what you know of me." 

"I know nothing but good, Mrs. Lenoir ? " 
replied Lizzie, taking the woman's hand, and 
kissing it, " there isn't a man or woman in 



238 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

our neighbourhood who hasn't a kind word 
for you.'^ 

" My dear," said Mrs. Lenoir, addressing 
the Duchess, "this is a girl who lives in the 
same house as I do, and who has known me 
for years. What is the matter with you, 
Lizzie ? " For the girl was gazing at the 
Duchess with a look of wild admiration and 
interest. 

" I beg your pardon," said Lizzie, " but 
is the young lady your daughter that you 
spoke to me of last night " 

Lizzie was stopped in her speech by a 
sob from Mrs. Lenoir, who hid her face in 
her hands, and turned from them, hearing as 
she turned, a whisper from the Duchess, — 

" What does she mean ? Your daughter ! 
Oh, my God ! Let me look at you again." 

But Mrs. Lenoir kept her face hidden 
from the girl, and said, with broken sobs, 

" Let me have my way a little, my dear. 
I will speak more plainly presently, when 
we are alone. Give me your hand " 



The Woman. 239 



She held the pretty fingers which the 
Duchess gave her, with a clinging loving 
pressure which caused the girl's heart to 
thrill with hope and fear. 

"Hear what Lizzie has to say first. 
Lizzie, you were in my room this morning 
when a gentleman called to see me ? " 

" Yes, Mrs. Lenoir." 

" You heard him inquiring for me ? '* 

" Yes." 

" Did he give any name ? " 

^^ After he left, I heard that he called 
himself Mr. Temple." 

While these words were spoken, Mrs. 
Lenoir, finding herself unable to stand, sank 
into a chair, and the Duchess, sinking to 
her knees, hid her face in her lap, holding 
Mrs. Lenoir's hand. 

" Describe the man, Lizzie," said Mrs. 
Lenoir. 

Lizzie did so in a graphic manner; the 
portrait she presented was truthful and un- 
mistakable. Every word that was being 



24 o The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

uttered was carrying convictioii to the 
Duchess's soul. 

'*"When he left the house/' said Mrs. 

Lenoir, ^' Charlie and you Charlie and 

Lizzie are engaged, my dear, and will soon 
be married," — this to the Duchess — " Charlie 
and you were in the passage, and he passed 
you." 

^^Yes." 

^^ Charlie, you saw his face ? " 

" I did, ma'am." 

" And recognised it ? " 

" As sure as any thing's sure, though a 
good many years have gone by since I saw 
it last." 

^' Was his name. Temple ? " 

" Not by a long way." 

'* Tell me his name again, Charlie." 

"Ned Chester his name was, and is," 
added Charlie positively. 

At the mention of the name a shudder 
passed through the Duchess's frame. 



The Woman. 241 



*' What character did he bear when you 
knew him ? " 

**A precious bad one; not to put too 
fine a point upon it, he was a thief." 

"That will do, Charlie. Good night; 
good night, Lizzie." 

" Good night, Mrs. Lenoir, God bless 
you.'' 

" Thank you, my dears." 

In another moment Mrs. Lenoir and the 
Duchess were again alone. 

The questions had been asked by Mrs. 
Lenoir with the distinct purpose of con- 
vincing the Duchess that she was acting in 
good faith and for the girPs good. She 
felt that she was on her trial, as it were, 
and out of the teachings of her own sad 
experience she gathered wisdom to act 
in such a way as to win confidence. On 
the Duchess the effect produced was con- 
vincing, so far as the man whose attention 
she had accepted was concerned ; but a dual 
process of thought was working in her mind 

VOL. III. E 



242 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

—one associated with the lover who would 
have betrayed her, the other associated with 
the woman who had stepped between her 
and her peril. 

'^My dear," said Mrs. Lenoir, after 
an interval of silence, during which the 
Duchess had not raised her head, and Mrs. 
Lenoir was strengthening herself for the 
coining trial, "will you give me what in- 
formation you can concerning yourself which 
will help to guide us both in this, sad 
hour ? '' 

A pressure of her fingers answered her in 
the affirmative. 

^' Keep your eyes from me till I bid you 
rise," continued Mrs. Lenoir, with heaving 
bosom. " Where do you live ? '' 

" In Eosemary Lane." 

" Have you lived all your life there ? " 

** Since I was a very little child." 

^^ You were not bom there ? " 

" Oh, no ; I do not know where I was 
bom " Mrs. Lenoir's eyes wandered to 



The Woman. 243 



the window which shut out the night. She 
could' not see it, but she felt that the snow 
was falling ; " and," said the Duchess, in a 
feltering voice, " I cannot remember seeing 
the face of my mother." 

" Tell ine all you know, my dear ; conceal 
nothing from me." 

In broken tones the girl told every par- 
ticular of her history, from her introduction 
into Bosemary Lane, as the incident had 
been related to her by Seth Dumbrick, to 
the present and first great trial in life. 

" Look up, my dear." 

The Duchess raised her eyes, almost 
blinded with tears. Mrs. Lenoir tenderly 
wiped them away, and placed in the girPs 
hand the miniature portrait of herself, painted 
in her younger and happier days. 

" It is like me," murmured the girl. 

*' It is my picture when I was your age." 
She sank to her knees by the side of the 
Duchess. "At this time and in this place 
my story is too long to tell. You shall 

R 2 



244 '^f^ Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 



learn all by-and-by, when we are safe. I 
had a child — a daughter, bom on such a 
night as this, in sorrow and tribulation. 
My memory is too treach^^rous, and the long 
and severe illness I passed through was too 
terrible in its effects upon me, to enable me 
to recall the circumstances of that period of 
my life. But I had my child, and she drew 
life from my breast, and brought gleams of 
happiness to my troubled soul. I have no 
recollection how long a time passed, till a 
deep darkness fell upon me; but when I 
recovered, and my reason was restored to 
me, I was told that my child was dead. 
I had no power to prove that it was false ; 
I was weak, friendless, penniless, and I 
wandered into the world solitary and alone. 
But throughout all my weary and sorrowful 
life, a voice — God's voice — never ceased 
whispering to me that my child was alive, 
and that I should one day meet her and 
clasp her to my heart! In this hope alone 
I have lived ; but for this hope 1 should 




The Woman, 245 



haye died long years ago. Heaven has 
fiilfilled its promise, and has brought you 
to my arms. I look into your face, and I 
see the face of my child ; I listen to your 
voice, and I hear the voice of my child ! 
God would not deceive me! In time to 
come, when you have heard my story, we 
will, if you decide that it shall be so, seek 
for worldly proof. I think I see the way to 
it, and if it is possible it shall be found.'' 

She rose from her knees, and standing 
apart. from the wondering, weeping girl, 
said, in a low voice, between her sobs, 

"In my youth I was wronged. I was 
innocent, as God is my judge ! My fault 
was, that I trusted and believed; that I, 
a young girl inexperienced in the world's 
bard ways, listened to the vows of a man, 
whom I loved with all my soul's strength ; 
whom 1 believed in as I believe in Eternal 
justice ! That was my sin. I have been 
bitterly punished ; no kiss of love, no word 
of affection that I could receive as truly my 



246 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

right, has been bestowed upon me since I 
was robbed of my child. I have been in 
darkness for years ; I am in darkness now, 
waiting for the light to shine upon my 
soui:" 

It came. Tender arms stole about her 
neck, loving lips were pressed to hers. In 
an agony of joy she clasped the girl to her 
bosom, and wept over her. For only a 
few moments did she allow herself the 
bliss of this reunion. She looked, affrighted, 
to a clock on the mantelpiece. 

^^At what time did that man say he 
would be here to meet us?" she asked, in 
a hurried whisper. 

'^ At eleven o'clock," was the whispered 
reply. 

" It wants but five minutes to the hour. 
We must go, child; we must fly from this 
place. 1^0 breath of suspicion must attach 
itself to my child's good name. Come — 
quickly, quickly ! " 

The Duchess allowed Mrs. Lenoir to put 



The Woman. 247 



on her hat and cloak, and before the hour 
struck they were in the street, hastening 
through the snow. 

Whither ? She knew not. But fate was 
directing her steps. 



CHAPTEB XXXII, 

NEMESIS. 

They did not escape unobserved, and within 
a short time of their departure from the 
hotel, were being tracked by friend and foe. 
The ostler attached to the hotel saw the 
woman stealing away, and noted the direc- 
tion they took; and when l^ed Chester 
droye to the ^Empire' and heard with 
dismay of the flight, the ostler turned an 
honest penny by directing him on their 
road. He turned more than One honest 
penny on this — ^to him — fortunate night. 
Eichards, who had made himself fully ac- 
quainted with Ned's movements, arrived at 
the hotel, in company with Arthur Temple, 
a few minutes after the runaway thief 



The Woman, ,.^ 249 



left it, and had no difficulty in obtaining 
the information he required. 

*' Two birds with one stone, sir," he said 
to Arthur ; ^^ we shall catch the thief and 
save the girl." 

"We may be too late if we go afoot," 
said Arthur; "every moment is precious. 
Now, my man," to the ostler, " your fastest 
horse and your lightest trap. A guinea for 
yourself if they are ready without delay ; 
another guinea if we overtake the persons 
we are after." 

" I'll earn them both, sir," cried the 
ostler, running to the stable-door. " You 
go into the hotel and speak to the 



missis." 



No sooner said than done. Before the 
horse was harnessed, the landlady had been 
satisfied. 

" My name is Temple," said Arthur to 
her in a heat, after the first words of ex- 
planation. " Here is my card, and here is 
some money as a guarantee. It is a matter 



250 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 



of life and death, and the safety of 
an innocent girl hangs upon the mo- 
ments." 

His excitement communicated itself to 
the landlady, who was won by his good 
looks and his enthusiasm, and she herself 
ran out to expedite the matter. They 
were soon on the road, but not soon enough 
to prevent Ned Chester from having more 
than a fair start of them. 

Bichards, who held the reins, needed no 
such incentive to put on the best speed as 
his young master's impatience unremittingly 
provided. As rapidly as was possible the horse 
ploughed its way through the heavy snow. 
Their course lay beyond the railway station, 
and as they passed it the few passengers by 
a train which had just arrived were emerg- 
ing from the door. To Arthur Temple's 
surprise Eichards, whose lynx eyes were 
watching every object, suddenly pulled up 
in the middle of the road. 

^' Hold the reins a moment, sir," he said, 




The Woman. 251 



jumping from the conveyance ; " here's 
somebody may be useful.'' 

He had caught sight of two faces he 
recognised, those of Sally and Seth Dum- 
brick. 

" Have you come here after the Duchess?" 
he asked^ arresting their steps. 

"Yes. Oh! yes," answered Sally, in 
amazement. 

Eichards pulled her towards the convey- 
ance, and Seth followed close at her heels. 

*' Jump in," said Eichards, who by this 
time was fully enjoying the adventure. 
" I'll take you to her. Don't stop to ask 
questions ; there's no time to answer them." 

Seth hesitated, but a glance at Arthur's 
truthful, ingenuous face, dispelled his 
doubts, and he mounted the conveyance 
with Sally, and entered into earnest conver- 
sation with the young man. 

Mrs. Lenoir, when she stole with the 
Duchess through the streets of Sevenoaks, 
had but one object in view — to escape from 



25a The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 



the town into the country, where she be- 
Keved they would be safe from pursuit. 
Blindly she led the way until she came to 
the country roads. Fortunately at about 
this time the snow ceased to fall, and the 
exciting events of the night rendered her 
and the Duchess oblivious to the difficulties 
which attended their steps. So unnerved 
was the Duchess by what had occurred that 
she was bereft of all power over her will, 
and she allowed herself unresistingly, and 
without question, to be led by Mrs. Lenoir 
to a place of safety and refuge. They 
encouraged each other by tender words and 
caresses, and Mrs. Lenoir looked anxiously 
before her for a cottage or farmhouse, where 
they could obtain shelter and a bed. But 
no such haven was in sight until they were 
at some distance from the town, when the 
devoted woman saw a building which she 
hoped might prove what she was in search 
of. As they approached closer to the build- 
ing she was undeceived ; before her stood a 



The Woman. 253 



quaint old church, with a hooded porch, and 
a graveyard by its side. A sudden faintness 
came upon her, as she recognised the familiar 
outlines of the sacred refuge in which her 
child was bom ; but before the full force of 
this recognition had time to make itself felt, 
her thoughts were wrested from contempla- 
tion of the strange coincidence by sounds of 
pursuing shouts. 

Her mother's fears, her mother's love, 
interpreted the sounds aright, and she knew 
that they proceeded from the man from 
whom they were endeavouring to escape. 
Seizing the Duchess's arm, she flew towards 
the porch, and reaching it at the moment 
Ned Chester overtook them, thrust the girl 
into the deeper shadows, and stood before 
her child, with flashing eyes, with her arms 
spread out as a shield. 

'^ So ! " cried Ned Chester, panting and 
furious ; '* a pretty trick you have played 
me I Ser\e me hght for trusting to such a 
woman ! " 



254 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

He strove to push her aside, so that he 
might have speech with the Duchess, and 
Mrs. Lenoir struck him in the face. He 
laughed at the feeble blow — not lightly, but 
mockingly. The savage nature of the man 
was roused. He raised his hand to return 
the blow, when the Duchess stepped for- 
ward, and confronted him. His arm dropped 
to his side. 

" What is the meaning of this ? " he 
asked, endeavouring to convey some ten- 
derness in his tone. ^^ What has this crea- 
ture been telling you? She has been 
poisoning your mind against me, if I'm a 
judge of things. Come, be reasonable; take 
my arm, and let us return to the hotel." 

But his power over the girl was gone ; 
the brutality of his manner was a con- 
firmation of the story she had heard of his 
treachery towards her. 

" Mr. Chester," she said — and paused, 
frightened at the change which came over 
him at the utterance of his name. His £Etoe 



The Woman. 255 



grew white, and an ugly twitching played 
about his lips. 

'* What have you heard ? " he demanded 
hoarsely. 

She mustered sufficient strength to reply 
faintly, 

" The truth." 

His savage nature mastered him. With 
a cruel sweep of his arm, he dashed Mrs. 
Lenoir to the ground, and clasped the 
Duchess in a fierce embrace. Her shrieks 
pierced the air, 

"Help I Help!" 

Her appeal was answered, almost on the 
instant. An iron grasp upon his neck com- 
pelled him to relinquish his hold of the 
terrified girl. Seth Dumbrick held him as 
in a vice, and he had no power to free 
himself. The warning voice of Bichards 
was needed to put a limit to the strong 
man's just resentment : 

" Don't hurt him more than is necessary, 
Mr. Seth Dumbrick. There's a rod in 



256 The Dtuhess 0/ Rosemary Lane. 

pickle for him worse than anything you 
can do to him." 

" Lie there, you dog ! " exclaimed Seth, 
forcing Ned Chester to the ground, and 
placing his foot upon his breast. ^^ Stir an 
inch, and I will kill you ! " 

While this episode in the drama was 
being enacted, another of a different kind 
was working itself out. When the Duchess 
was released by Ned Chester, Arthur 
Temple threw his arm around her, to pre- 
vent her from falling. 

*^Do not be frightened," he said, in a 
soothing tone, ^' you are safe now. I am 
glad we are in time. My name is Arthur 
Temple." 

They gazed at each other in rapt admira- 
tion. To Arthur, the beauty of the Duchess 
was a revelation. In the struggle with 
Ned Chester, her hat had fallen from her 
head, and her hair lay upon her shoulders 
in heavy golden folds. Her lovely eyes, 
suffused with tears, were raised to his face 



The Woman. 257 



in gratitude. For a moment she was blind 
to everything but the appearaitce of this 
hero, who, as it seemed to her fevered fancy, 
had descended from Heaven to rescue her. 
But a cry of compassion from SaUy brought 
her back to earth, and, turning, she saw 
her faithful nurse and companion kneeling 
in the snow, with Mrs. Lenoir's head 
in her lap. She flew to her side, and 
tremblingly assisted Sally in her endeavour 
to restore the insensible woman to life. But 
the blow which Ned Chester had dealt Mrs. 
Lenoir was a fierce one ; she lay as one 
dead, and when, after some time, she 
showed signs of life, she feebly waved her 
hands, in the effort to beat away a shadowed 
horror, and moaned, 

" Will he never come ! Will he never 
come ! " 

She was living the past over again. Her 
mind had gone back to the time when, 
assisted by John, the gardener of Spring- 
field, she had travelled in agony through 

VOL. in. s 



258 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 



the heavy snow, to implore the man who 
had betrayed and deserted her to take pity 
on her hapless state, and to render her some 
kind of human justice, if not for her sake, 
for the sake of his child, then unborn. 
And the thought which oppressed her and 
filled her with dread at that awfal epoch of 
her life, now found expression on her lips. 

" Will he never come ! Oh, my God ! 
will he never come ! " 

" Do you think," whispered Arthur 
Temple to Seth Dumbrick, who had given 
Ned Chester into Eichards' charge, ^^ that 
we might raise her into the trap, and drive 
her slowly to the town ? " 

The tender arms about her desisted from 
their effort as she moaned, 

'^If you raise me in your arms, 1 shall 
die ! If you attempt to carry me into the 
town, I shall die ! " 

The very words she had spoken to John 
on that night of agony. And then, again, 

" Will he never come I If he saw me. 



The Woman, 259 



he would take pity on me ! Send him to 
me, kind Heaven ! " 

Another actor appeared upon the scene, — 
Mr. Temple, who, accompanied by the ostler, 
had found his way to the spot. 

" Arthur ! " he cried. 

The young man rose at once to his feet, 
and went to his father. 

Mr. Temple^ in the brief glance he threw 
around him, saw faces he recognised ; saw 
Eichards guarding Ned Chester, saw Seth 
Dumbrick and Sally, saw, without observing 
her face, Mrs. Lenoir lying with her head 
on the Duchess's bosom. He did not look 
at them a second time. His only thought 
was of Arthur, the pride and hope of his 
life, the one being he loved on earth. 

" What has brought you here, sir ? " 
asked Arthur. 

" Anxiety for you,'^ replied Mr. Temple. 
** Why do I see you in this company ? How 
much is true of the story that man told 
me?'^ — ^pointing to Seth Dumbrick. "If 
you have got yourself into any trouble " 



26o The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

The look of pained surprise in Arthur's 
face prevented the completion of the sen- 
tence. The £BLther and son had moved a 
few paces from the group, and the words 
they exchanged were heard only by them- 
selves. 

" KI have got myself into any trouble ! " 
echoed Arthur, struggling with the belief 
his father's words carried to his mind. 
" What trouble do you refer to ? " 

" We must not play with words, Arthur. 
My meaning is plain. K that man's story 
is true, and you have entangled your- 
self with a woman — such things commonly 
happen " 

"For both our sakes," said Arthur, 
drawing himself up, "say not another 
word. I came here to save an innocent 
girl from a villain's snare. When you 
find me guilty of any such wickedness 
as your words imply, renounce me as your 
son — as I would renounce a son of mine 
if unhappily he should prove himself 



The Woman. 261 

capable of an act so base and cruel ! The 
name of Temple is not to be sullied by 
such dishonour! '' 

Mr. Temple shuddered involuntarily, 
remembering that it was on this very spot 
he, a mature and worldly-wise man, had 
been guilty of an act immeasurably more 
base and dishonourable than that in the 
mind of his generous-hearted son, 

*' Come, sir," said Arthur, taking his 
father's hand, and leading him to the 
group, " do justice to others as well as 
to myself. This is the young lady whom, 
happily, we have saved. Confess that 
you have never looked upon a fairer face, 
nor one more innocent." 

Mr. Temple's breath came and went 
quickly as the Duchess raised her tear- 
stained face to his. At this moment, Mrs. 
Lenoir, with a deep sigh, opened her eyes 
and saw Mr. Temple bending over her. With 
a shriek that struck terror to the hearts 
of those who surrounded her, she struggled 



262 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 




jfrom the arms of the Duchess, and em- 
braced the knees of Mr. Temple. 

*' You have come, then — ^you have come ! 
Heaven has heard my prayers ! I knew 
you would not desert me ! Oh, God ! my 
joy will kill me ! " 

And looking down upon the kneeling 
woman, clasping his knees in a delirium 
of false happiness, Mr. Temple, with a 
face that rivalled in whiteness the snow- 
covered plains around him, gazed into the 
face of Nelly Marston ! 

A suspicion of the possible truth strug- 
gled to the mind of the Duchess. 

" Mother ! " she said, in a voice of much 
tenderness, raising the prostrate woman 
from her knees, and supporting her, 
" why should you kneel to him ? '' 

The tender voice, the tender embrace, 
the sudden flashing upon her senses of the 
forms standing about her, recalled Mrs. 
Lenoir from her dream, and she clung to 
her daughter with a fierce and passionate 
clinging. 



The Woman. 263 



" My child ! my child ! They shall not 
take you from me ! Say that you will not 
desert me — ^promise me, my child ! I will 
work for you — ^I will be your servant — 
anything — 



n 



'^ Hush, mother ! " said the girl. '/ Be 
comforted, I will never leave you. No 
power can part us," 

With a supreme effort of will, Mr. Temple 
tore himself from the contemplation of the 
shameful discovery, and the likely conse- 
quences of the exposure. 

"Come Arthur," he said, holding out 
his trembling hand to his son ; " this is no 
place for us," 

His voice was weak and wandering, and 
he seemed to have suddenly grown ten 
years older. 

Arthur did not stir jfrom the side of Mrs. 
Lenoir. 

"Come, I say!" cried Mr. Temple petu- 
lantly ; " have you no consideration for 
me ? It can all be explained ; we will talk 
over the matter when we are alone," 



264 The Dtcchess 0/ Rosemary Lane, 

" We must talk of it now," said Arthur 
solemnly, '^ with God's light shining upon 
us, and before His House of Prayer." 

A high purpose shone in the young man's 
face, and his manner was sad and earnest. 
He took Mrs. Lenoir's hand with infinite 
tenderness and respect, 

"Will you answer, with truth, what I 
shall ask you ? " 

"As truthfully as I would speak in 
presence of my Maker ! " replied Mrs. Le- 
noir, with downcast head. 

" This gentleman is my father. What is 
he to you ? " 

" He is the father of my dear child, torn 
from me by a cruel fraud, and now, thank 
God, Oh, thank God ! restored to me by a 
miracle. He should have been my husband. 
When he prevailed upon me to fly with him 
— I loved him, and was true to him in 
thought and deed, as God is my Judge ! — 
he promised solemnly to marry me." 

" And then " 



The Woman. 265 



^^ I can say no more," murmured Mrs» 
Lenoir with sobs that shook the souls of all 
who heard; "he deserted me, and left me 
to shame and poverty. 0, my child ! " she 
cried, turning her streaming eyes to the 
Duchess, "tell me that you forgive me ! '" 

"It is not you who need forgiveness, 
mother," sobbed the Duchess, falling into 
her mother's arms. 

A terrible silence ensued, broken by the 
querulous voice of Mr. Temple, 

"This woman's story is false. Arthur, 
will you take her word against mine ? 
Eemember what I have done for you — think 
of the love I bear you ! Do nothing rash, 
I implore you ! Say, if you like, that she 
has not lied. I will be kind to her, and 
will see that her life is passed in comfort. 
Will that content you?" He paused 
between every sentence for his son to speak, 
but no sound passed Arthur's lips. From 
the depths of his soul, whose leading prin- 

VOL. III. T 



266 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 

ciples were honour and justice, the young 
man was seeking for the right path. Exas- 
perated by his silence, Mr. Temple continued, 
and in a rash moment said, ^^ What can she 
adduce but her bare word? What evi- 
dence that the girl is my child ? " 

A voice from the rear of the group sup- 
plied the proof he asked for. It was 
Eichards who spoke. 

*' I can give the evidence. The girl is 
your child." 

Mr. Temple turned upon him with a look 
of fear, and the eyes of all were directed to 
Richards' face. 

The scene had produced so profound an 
effect upon the man that, holding the last 
link required to complete the chain, he was 
impressed with a superstitious dread that a 
judgment would fall upon him if he held 
back at this supreme moment. 

"The child is yours. Before you in- 
structed me ito ascertain the particulars 
concerning Seth Dumbrick's life, I had made 



The Woman. 267 



the discovery. It was I who took the child 
to Kosemary Lane, and left her there." 

" You traitor ! " cried Mr. Temple, almost 
frenzied ; " you have deceived and betrayed 
me ! " 

^' You told me," said Eichards, in a 
dogged voice, " that you wished the child 
placed in such a position in life that she 
should never be able to suspect who was 
her father, and I did the best I could. You 
employed me to do your dirty work, and 
I did it, and was paid for it. And when, to 
try you, I told you that your child had died, 
you expressed in your manner so little pity, 
that, having learned to know you, I thought 
it as well not to undeceive you." 

The last link was supplied, and the chain 
was complete. 

This disclosure effected a startling change 
in Mr. Temple's demeanour. He drew him- 
self up haughtily. 

" Arthur, I command you to come with 



me." 



268 The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. 



*'I cannot obey you, sir,'' said Arthur 
sadly and firmly. " You have broken the 
tie which bound us. I will never enter 
your house again ; nor will I share your 
dishonour. Justice shows me the road where 
duty lies, and I will follow it." 

He held out his hand to the Duchess ; 
she accepted it, and clasped it in love and 
wonder; and passing his disengaged arm 
around Mrs. Lenoir's waist, he turned his 
back upon his father, and took the road 
which justice pointed out to him. 



THE END. 



PSIMIKD BT XAYLOK LAH CO., 
LITTLB QrXKV 8TBRET, LTNCOT.w's INW TIELDS. 



/ 




i