Wife in Name Only Part 4

"My son--my only son! why did you not come sooner?" he asked. "I have longed so for you. You have brought life and healing with you; I shall live years longer now that I have you again."

And in the first excitement of such happiness Lord Charlewood did not dare to tell his father the mournful story of his marriage and of his young wife's untimely death. Then the doctors told him that the old earl might live for some few years longer, but that he would require the greatest care; he had certainly heart-disease, and any sudden excitement, any great anxiety, any cause of trouble might kill him at once. Knowing this Lord Charlewood did not dare to tell his secret; it would have been plunging his father into danger uselessly; besides which the telling of it was useless now--his beautiful wife was dead, and the child too young to be recognized or made of consequence. So he devoted himself to the earl, having decided in his own mind what steps to take.

If the earl lived until little Madaline reached her third year, then he would tell him his secret; the child would be pretty and graceful--she would, in all probability, win his love. He could not let it go on longer than that. Madaline could not remain unknown and uncared for in that little county town; it was not to be thought of. Therefore, if his father lived, and all went well, he would tell his story then; if, on the contrary, his health failed, then he would keep his secret altogether, and his father would never know that he had disobeyed him.

There was a wonderful affection between this father and son. The earl was the first to notice the change that had come over his bright, handsome boy; the music had all gone from his voice, the ring from his laughter, the light from his face. Presently he observed the deep mourning dress.

"Hubert," he asked, suddenly, "for whom are you in mourning?"

Lord Charlewood's face flushed. For one moment he felt tempted to answer--

"For my beloved wife whom Heaven has taken from me."

But he remembered the probable consequence of such a shock to his father, and replied, quietly:

"For one of my friends, father--one whom you did not know." And Lord Mountdean did not suspect.

Another time the old earl placed his arm round his son's neck.

"How I wish, Hubert," he said, "that your mother had lived to see you a grown man! I think--do not laugh at me, my son--I think yours is perfect manhood; you please me infinitely."

Lord Charlewood smiled at the simple, loving praise.

"I have a woman's pride in your handsome face and tall, stately figure.

How glad I am, my son, that no cloud has ever come between us! You have been the best of sons to me. When I die you can say to yourself that you have never once in all your life given me one moment's pain. How pleased I am that you gave up that foolish marriage for my sake! You would not have been happy. Heaven never blesses such marriages."

He little knew that each word was as a dagger to his son's heart.

"After you had left me and had gone back to England," he continued, "I used to wonder if I had done wisely or well in refusing you your heart's desire; now I know that I did well, for unequal marriages never prosper.

She, the girl you loved, may have been very beautiful, but you would never have been happy with her."

"Hush, father!" said Lord Charlewood, gently. "We will not speak of this again."

"Does it still pain you? tell me, my son," cried the earl.

"Not in the way you think," he replied.

"I would not pain you for the world--you know that, Hubert. But you must not let that one unfortunate love affair prejudice you against marriage.

I should like to see you married, my son. I should like you to love some n.o.ble, gentle lady whom I could call daughter; I should like to hold your children in my arms, to hear the music of children's voices before I go."

"Should you love my children so much, father?" he asked.

"Yes, more than I can tell you. You must marry, Hubert, and then, as far as you are concerned, I shall not have a wish left unfulfilled."

There was hope then for his little Madaline--hope that in time she would win the old earl's heart, and prevent his grieving over the unfortunate marriage. For two years and a half the Earl of Mountdean lingered; the fair Italian clime, the warmth, the suns.h.i.+ne, the flowers, all seemed to join in giving him new life. For two years and a half he improved, so that his son had begun to hope that he might return to England, and once more see the home he loved so dearly--Wood Lynton; and, though during this time his secret preyed upon him through every hour of every day, causing him to long to tell his father, yet he controlled the longing, because he would do nothing that might in the least degree r.e.t.a.r.d his recovery. Then, when the two years and a half had pa.s.sed, and he began to take counsel with himself how he could best break the intelligence, the earl's health suddenly failed him, and he could not accomplish his purpose.

During this time he had every six months sent regular remittances to England, and had received in return most encouraging letters about little Madaline. She was growing strong and beautiful; she was healthy, fair, and happy. She could say his name; she could sing little baby-songs. Once, the doctor cut a long golden-brown curl from her little head and sent it to him; but when he received it the earl lay dying, and the son could not show his father his little child's hair. He died as he had lived, loving and trusting his son, clasping his hand to the last, and murmuring sweet and tender words to him. Lord Charlewood's heart smote him as he listened, he had not merited such implicit faith and trust.

"Father," he said, "listen for one moment! Can you hear me? I did marry Madaline--I loved her so dearly, I could not help it--I married her; and she died one year afterward. But she left me a little daughter. Can you hear me, father?"

No gleam of light came into the dying eyes, no consciousness into the quiet face; the earl did not hear. When, at last, his son had made up his mind to reveal his secret, it was too late for his father to hear--and he died without knowing it. He died, and was brought back to England, and buried with great pomp and magnificence; and then his son reigned in his stead, and became Earl of Mountdean. The first thing that he did after his father's funeral was to go down to Castledene; he had made all arrangements for bringing his daughter and heiress home. He was longing most impatiently to see her; but when he reached the little town a shock of surprise awaited him that almost cost him his life.

Chapter IV.

Dr. Letsom had prospered; one gleam of good fortune had brought with it a sudden outburst of suns.h.i.+ne. The doctor had left his little house in Castle street, and had taken a pretty villa just outside Castledene. He had furnished it nicely--white lace curtains were no longer an unattainable luxury; no house in the town looked so clean, so bright, or so pretty as the doctor's People began to look up to him; it was rumored that he had had money left to him--a fortune that rendered him independent of his practice. No sooner was that quite understood than people began to find out that after all he was a very clever man. No sooner did they feel quite convinced that he was indifferent about his practice than they at once appreciated his services; what had been called abruptness now became truth and sincerity He was declared to be like Dr. Abernethy--wonderfully clever, though slightly brusque in manner. Patients began to admire him; one or two instances of wonderful cures were noted in his favor; the world, true to itself, true to its own maxims, began to respect him when it was believed that he had good fortune for his friend. In one year's time he had the best practice in the town, the ladies found his manner so much improved.

He bore his good-fortune as he had borne his ill-fortune, with great equanimity; it had come too late. If but a t.i.the of it had fallen to his share twelve years earlier, he might have made the woman he loved so dearly his wife. She might have been living--- loving happy, by his side. Nothing could bring her back--the good-fortune had come all too late; still he was grateful for it. It was pleasant to be able to pay his bills when they became due, to be able to help his poorer neighbors, to be able to afford for himself little luxuries such as he had long been without. The greatest happiness he had now in life was his love for little Madeline. The hold she had taken of him was marvelous from the first moment she held out her baby-hands until the last in which he saw her she was his one dream of delight. At first he had visited Ashwood as a matter of duty; but, as time pa.s.sed on those visits became his dearest pleasures. The child began to know him, her lovely little face to brighten for him; she had no fear of him, but would sit on his knee and lisp her pretty stories and sing her pretty songs until he was fairly enchanted.

Madaline was a lovely child. She had a beautiful head and face, and a figure exquisitely molded. Her smiles were like suns.h.i.+ne; her hair had in it threads of gold; her eyes were of the deep blue that one sees in summer. It was not only her great loveliness, but there was about her a wonderful charm, a fascination, that no one could resist.

Dr. Letsom loved the child. She sat on his knee and talked to him, until the whole face of the earth seemed changed to him. Besides his great love for the little Madaline, he became interested in the story of Margaret Dornham's life--in her love for the handsome, reckless ne'er-do-well who had given up work as a failure--in her wonderful patience, for she never complained--in her sublime heroism, for she bore all as a martyr. He heard how Henry Dornham was often seen intoxicated--heard that he was abusive, violent. He went afterward to the cottage, and saw bruises on his wife's delicate arms and hands--dark cruel marks on her face; but by neither word nor look did she ever betray her husband. Watching that silent, heroic life, he became interested in her. More than once he tried to speak to her about her husband--to see if anything could be done to reclaim him. She knew that all efforts were in vain--there was no good in him; still more she knew now that there never had been such good as she had hoped and believed.

Another thing pleased and interested the doctor--it was Margaret Dornham's pa.s.sionate love for her foster child. All the love that she would have lavished on her husband, all the love that she would have given to her own child, all the repressed affection and buried tenderness of heart were given to this little one. It was touching pitiful, sad, to see how she wors.h.i.+ped her.

"What shall I do when the three years are over, and her father comes to claim her?" she would say to the doctor. "I shall never be able to part with her. Sometimes I think I shall run away with her and hide her."

How little she dreamed that there was a prophecy in the words!

"Her father has the first claim," said Dr. Letsom. "It may be hard for us to lose her, but she belongs to him."

"He will never love her as I do," observed Margaret Dornham.

Of the real rank and position of that father she had not the faintest suspicion. He had money, she knew; but that was all she knew--and money to a woman whose heart hungers for love seems very little.

"There is something almost terrible in the love of that woman for that child," thought the doctor. "She is good, earnest, tender, true, by nature; but she is capable of anything for the little one's sake."

So the two years and a half pa.s.sed, and the child, with her delicate, marvelous grace, had become the very light of those two lonely lives. In another six months they would have to lose her. Dr. Letsom knew very well that if the earl were still living at the end of the three years his son would tell him of his marriage.

On a bright, suns.h.i.+ny day in June the doctor walked over to Ashwood. He had a little packet of fruit and cakes with him, and a wonderful doll, dressed most royally.

"Madaline!" he cried, as he entered the cottage, and she came running to him, "should you like a drive with me to-morrow?" he asked. "I am going to Corfell, and I will promise to take you if you will be a good girl."

She promised--for a drive with the doctor was her greatest earthly delight.

"Bring her to my house about three to-morrow afternoon, Mrs. Dornham,"

said Dr. Letsom, "and she shall have her drive."

Margaret promised. When the time came she took the little one, dressed in her pretty white frock; and as they sat in the drawing-room, the doctor was brought home to his house--dead.

It was such a simple yet terrible accident that had killed him. A poor man had been injured by a kick from a horse. For want of better accommodation, he had been carried up into a loft over a stable, where the doctor attended him. In the loft was an open trap-door, through which trusses of hay and straw were raised and lowered. No one warned Dr. Letsom about it. The aperture was covered with straw, and he, walking quickly across, fell through. There was but one comfort--he did not suffer long. His death was instantaneous; and on the bright June afternoon when he was to have taken little Madaline for a drive, he was carried home, through the sunlit streets, dead.

Margaret Dornham and the little child sat waiting for him when the sad procession stopped at the door.

"The doctor is dead!" was the cry from one to another.

A terrible pain shot through Margaret's head. Dead! The kindly man, who had been her only friend, dead! Then perhaps the child would be taken from her, and she should see it no more!