Jasper waited patiently until the sound of the carriage wheels had died away into the distance, then he came out of his hiding-place, his face pale, his eyes shining.
"Lucy Ashford," he said, sinking into a chair, and holding up one finger in solemn warning, "you may be asked some day to give an account of what has taken place to-night. Remember this; you know nothing, you recognised no one--till I give you leave. Disobey me, and the story of your Canterbury trip becomes the property of the whole world. I'll proclaim it through every newspaper in the world."
Trembling and crying, and too ignorant to realise the absurdity of this threat, Lucy swore to be silent; and then, to her intense relief, Mr. Vermont changed his mind as to staying the night, and announced his decision of returning to London.
CHAPTER XXI
On the night of that fateful trip, when Leroy returned to his chambers, he found Lady Constance's letter. Already tired with the events of the day, and the struggle in the water, this proved an overwhelming blow. The thought that he had spent the day in idle dalliance, when he might have been with the woman he truly loved--might have basked in the warmth of her presence, even though she would never be his, drove him almost to madness.
Jasper Vermont, who had followed him back to town by the first train obtainable, called in at Jermyn Court, and found him pacing up and down the room, more troubled and unhappy than he had ever been in the whole course of his pampered, shielded life. Vermont listened and sympathised, and stabbed afresh, with his artful accounts of Lady Constance's anger at the fancied slight. He was altogether delighted at the way in which things had turned out, though he did not know how Fortune had aided him still more at Waterloo Station.
On the following morning Leroy received a cypher note from Lady Merivale, saying that she had arrived home safely, and unnoticed; and, with a sigh of relief, he turned his attention to his own affairs. To Jasper's supreme annoyance, he insisted on going through a pile of papers which Vermont had only meant him to sign; and to that gentleman's chagrin he actually dared to interfere in the matter of rents and leases; which proceeding, naturally, did not tend to make Jasper feel the more kindly disposed to the world in general, and Adrien Leroy in particular.
When he had taken his departure, Adrien ordered the motor, and drove down to Barminster with the intention of offering an apology for his seeming discourtesy. He found all in confusion and excitement in view of the coming ball; and, whether by accident or design, he found it impossible to get a single word with Constance alone.
The two ladies received the explanation of his absence--a river-trip with a friend--with chilling indifference. To Miss Penelope nothing was of any importance except the decorations of the banqueting hall, while Lady Constance had the evidence of her own eyesight. He was compelled, therefore, to return to London the next day in the same unhappy state of mind. To distract his thoughts, he threw himself heart and soul into the preparations for the festive event; and even Jasper Vermont himself could not have worked harder.
The announcement of the fancy dress ball to be held at Barminster had made something like a sensation; for not only was the magnificence of the Castle well known, but the fact that it was so seldom used for festivities of any kind lent importance to the occasion, and had roused society, both in town and country, to the height of expectancy.
Preparations were carried on apace. The whole Castle was to be lighted and decorated, regardless of expense, while even the servants' dresses were to be manufactured by the masters of their craft, and approved of by heraldic authorities, in order that the right effect of the period, that of two hundred years back, might be maintained. Never had a ball been carried out with such a wealth of detail.
Throughout all this, and during the many visits which Adrien found necessary to make to Barminster, journeying backwards and forwards in his great car, Lady Constance maintained a smiling, gentle demeanour; but she allowed him no opportunity for explanation, seeming rather to avoid his presence. Even Lord Barminster, watching his two dear ones closely, was not blind to the gravity of the situation; but he trusted to Constance's love to make matters right in the end.
At last the eventful night came. The temporary stables which the village carpenters had been erecting close to the ordinary ones were rapidly filling. Cars and carriages stood side by side, as guests from town and the surrounding districts arrived; and the air resounded with the clatter and rattle of the horses' hoofs and carriage wheels, mingled with the hooting of motor horns.
Within the Castle all was light and mirth. Ripples of laughter and the buzz of conversation went on incessantly, as the guests arrived in their varied and gorgeous costumes.
The walls of the great reception rooms had all been covered with priceless tapestry, and as far as possible made to represent the ball-room of Antony Leroy, two hundred years ago. But the guests themselves had not been asked to keep to any period of history or fashion, and, therefore, it was the most incongruous crowd that had ever gathered within the walls of Barminster Castle. Never were dresses more regal or more magnificent, alike in materials, colour and decoration. Cavaliers in silks and satins, with plumed hats and jewelled swords; Crusaders in glittering mail and silver armour. Alsace peasant girls mingled with Carmelite monks and Sicilian nuns. Shakespeare's characters were legion--Portias, Cymbelines, Katherines and Shylocks, all laughed and jested together, their identity concealed beneath their black velvet masks. It seemed as if every character and fable had risen to throng the halls of Barminster Castle that night.
Up in the gallery above the great ball-room a famous orchestra poured forth melody, and the guests were awaiting the entrance of their host as a signal to start dancing.
The last visitor had arrived, when Lord Barminster and his sister came from the entrance hall, where they had stood so long. The old man had merely donned a domino over his evening dress and carried his mask in his hand; but Miss Penelope had had her elaborate dress copied from a picture of Lord Antony's wife, which hung in the Picture Gallery. The gown was composed of soft grey satin, over which hung a veil of gold chiffon embroidered with pearls. An embroidery of gold wheat-ears sown with pearls decorated the bodice and the long, grey satin train; this, together with the family diamonds, made Miss Penelope an imposing figure, even in that bevy of fair women and gorgeous gowns.
Immediately behind them came Adrien and Lady Constance. The latter had chosen to represent "Miranda," and her loveliness seemed almost supernatural. The pale gold of her hair and the perfect shell-pink of her complexion were set off to advantage by her gown, which, simple as it was, yet showed by that very simplicity the hand of the master by whom it had been designed. It was of palest green satin, edged with chiffon in such a way as to represent the crested waves, relieved here and there by pink sea-shells and tiny wreaths of seaweed; while her only ornaments were pearls, the gifts of her guardian. It was little wonder that Adrien had been unable to express the admiration he felt, when he looked upon her fair beauty, which was now, however, covered by a velvet mask.
He himself had taken the character of Charles the First, and, with his dark, deep eyes and melancholy face, fully looked the part of the unhappy monarch. There was a faint murmur of admiration as he entered, for every detail had been so carefully copied, from the lace collar to the jewelled order across his breast, that it was as if Van Dyck's famous picture itself had stepped down from its frame.
Unconscious of the attention they provoked, Adrien led Lady Constance out to the first dance, and opened the ball with her.
Miss Penelope was in the seventh heaven of delight, when some little time later Adrien came up to her.
"What a magnificent sight, is it not, Adrien?" she said excitedly. "I knew it would be a success; but really the dresses are wonderful. Then the mystery is so delightful. I can't recognise any one now under the masks. Look, who is that?" She glanced towards a lady dressed as Undine, who seemed to float by them, so light were her movements, on the arm of a Mephistopheles.
"That," said Adrien, whose quick eyes readily penetrated the majority of the disguises, "that is--yes, I cannot be mistaken--Ev--Lady Merivale."
His voice dropped slightly as he spoke the name; for he had not expected that she would accept Miss Penelope's invitation, and was surprised by her presence.
"Who is the Mephistopheles?" asked his aunt.
Adrien glanced after the couple rather puzzled.
"I don't know," he admitted frankly.
"It is something, a shadow only, like Mr. Vermont," suggested Miss Penelope.
"It cannot be he," said Adrien, "he is not coming to-night."
Lord Barminster, who had approached in time to hear this speech, looked affectionately at his son, and Adrien caught the glance and understood it. But without making any comment, he went in search of his partner for the next waltz.
Meanwhile, Undine and Mephistopheles had seated themselves in the deep recess of one of the alcoves.
"May I get you an ice, madam?" asked the Mephistopheles in a queer, strained voice.
Undine turned her face towards him, and her eyes flashed curiously through the mask.
"You may," she replied, also disguising her voice, "if you will tell me who you are."
"That I dare not," was the guarded reply. "My name is never mentioned in ears polite, you know."
Undine smiled.
"Since you will not tell me your name, perhaps you can tell me mine without the asking."
"I can, madam. You are--Lady Merivale, who is so fond of the river."
Undine started, her face turning suddenly pale.
"I--what do you mean? Who are you?" she asked, as she peered at him with straining eyes, seeking to pierce the clever disguise.
"Mephistopheles!" was the calm retort. Then, as if to turn the subject, he continued lightly: "It is a fair scene, and a fabulous one."
Undine began to have a slight suspicion as to whom her companion might be, and was far from comfortable in her mind. The hit at the river might have been only a chance one; but this was doubtful, if Mephistopheles turned out to be either Mortimer Shelton or Jasper Vermont, as she half feared.
She strove to conceal her uneasiness.
"The best should be happy and satisfied to-night," she said; "it is a great success."
"Yes, happy!" agreed the demon, nodding his horned head, "but not satisfied. That will never be till he sees the marriage of his beloved son----" He stopped short.
"With Lady Constance Tremaine," finished Lady Merivale, in a low voice, from which all attempt at disguise had gone.
Mephistopheles nodded again.
"You have guessed aright, my lady," he said. "See! there they are together. A handsome pair; an admirable match. Yet it is sad to think----" He stopped again.
"What?" cried Lady Merivale, grasping his scarlet-clad arm in a fierce grip.
"It will never be!"
His companion trembled with suppressed eagerness.
"What do you meant?" she exclaimed. "Can you prevent it?"
"I both can and will," was the quiet answer. "But, come, let us seek a more retired spot."
He drew her almost forcibly out of the recess into the shadow of some palms, as Adrien Leroy, with a partner on his arm, approached the alcove.
"Oh! Mr. Leroy," said Lady Chetwold, as they passed, "can you tell me who this latest arrival is?"
"I have not seen her," said Adrien rather wearily; his eyes were bent on Lady Constance, who had left him and was now dancing with Lord Standon.
"Oh, there she is!" exclaimed his voluble little companion. "Such a magnificent Cleopatra, isn't she?"
She drew his attention to a tall lady who was looking rather anxiously and constrainedly about her. Her dress certainly deserved the name of magnificent. It was made for the greater part of apricot-coloured satin, with gauze and tinselled chiffon fulled over it; from the shoulders was suspended a long train of imperial purple velvet, on which was embroidered in dull green, various Egyptian symbols. Her jewels too, which were abundant, consisting chiefly of diamonds and large emeralds, made her a regal, though almost theatrical figure. Yet, as her eyes met the steady regard of Adrien's, she looked nervously round as if to make her escape.
Lady Chetwold felt Adrien give a slight start, and looking up, she saw that his lips had grown stern, and even through the mask detected the angry gleam in his eyes.
"Do you know her?" she whispered.
"Yes!" he said. "But it would be a breach of confidence to betray her, Lady Chetwold."
At the close of the dance he surrendered the little lady her next partner, and went in search of the Cleopatra. He soon espied her, seated in one of the recesses, and strode across to her. She started to her feet as Adrien approached, then sinking back into her chair, she looked up at him defiantly.
At that moment the band struck up the music for the cotillion, and the mass of colours shifted in dazzling movement, as, amid the rustle of silks and the ripple of laughter, the dance commenced.
Adrien was engaged to Lady Constance for it; but in the height of his anger he had forgotten the fact.
"Ada!" he exclaimed in a low voice full of suppressed indignation. "What is the meaning of this intrusion? You've no business here."
"No business here! Oh, haven't I?" she answered harshly, her bosom heaving, and her bejewelled hands clenching.
"No," he continued, standing in front of her so that she should not be seen by the dancers. "You know that as well as I do. How did you come?"
"On my legs," retorted the lady defiantly. "They're good for something else besides dancing in your theatre, Adrien. You're an unfeeling brute to speak to me like that after the way you've treated me. Do you think I'm going to be thrown aside like a worn-out glove, just because you want to marry that grand swell of a cousin."
"Silence!" said Adrien in a tense whisper, and grasping her arm almost savagely. "Keep your mask on, and come with me. If you are discovered, I will not answer for the consequences."
She rose sullenly, but abashed by his unusual vehemence, for never yet had she seen him moved from his polite calm; and opening the door at the end of the room, he led her away from the brilliant ball-room.
"Now," he said as he closed the door and removed the mask from his face, "what does this mean? There is something more in your presence than I can understand. Whether I marry or not, it can be nothing to you, Ada; you have the money, which is all you care for."
"No, I haven't," she retorted loudly, "and you know it!"
He held up his hand with a gesture of contemptuous command.
"Speak quietly, if you can," he said, "or I leave you at once. Do you mean to tell me you have not received the deeds?"
"I do," she replied sulkily. "It ain't no use your carrying it off in this high-handed way, because I ain't going to be deceived by it! You promised me that you'd make me an allowance of a thousand a year, and give me the theatre when you left me. Well, you've left me right enough, but where's the money? That's what I want to know."
"I gave the deed to Jasper," said Adrien, looking down upon her with distaste, and vaguely wondering how he could ever have endured such a woman near him.
"You gave it to Jasper, did you?" said Ada, pulling or rather tugging off her mask viciously, as she spoke. "Hang me if I didn't think so all the time!" she exclaimed with a sudden change of tactics. "That Jasper's a thief. I heard you say something about those deeds, and Jasper told me a long rigmarole that you wouldn't sign them. Whether that's true or not, Heaven only knows. Jasper's a bad one, an' he's sold me. He's got the coin, and I'll split on him, as I threatened. No, it's no use your trying to make me hush up, I will speak out. I'll show you what a fool he's made of you, you who have been so good to him; I'll tell you a thing or two as will open your eyes a bit wider than they are now. I'll--"
"Be quiet!" said Adrien. "Not another word--there is some mistake. Jasper has forgotten, he has some reason for not giving it to you. He shall explain directly I can reach town. You shall have the money and the theatre, that I promise you; you know I have never broken my word yet. Now you must go. Every moment you stay increases your danger. My father is old-fashioned perhaps, but he would regard this as the greatest insult, and would punish it severely. You are no fool, Ada. How could you have done such a mad thing? Hush! slip on that domino." He pointed to a black masque cloak, and rang the bell. "Get away as quickly as possible," he went on as, now thoroughly subdued, she put on the cloak. "You shall have the money, I swear it."
On the servant entering, he hastily gave directions for her to be driven to the station; then without another word to her, he returned to the ball-room, just as his father's voice was heard inquiring for him.
"Ah! there, you are, my boy. I wondered if anything had gone wrong. Are you ill?" He gazed keenly at Adrien's pale, unmasked face.
"No, sir, it is rather hot though in this dress," he returned hurriedly, hating even the very semblance of a lie. "I believe Constance is waiting for me," he continued. "Ah, yes, there she is. The ball is going off well, don't you think so?"
His father nodded.
"Yes," he said, "your friends are pronouncing it to be a success. Mr. Paxhorn declares it is a vision of the period. But Constance is waiting."
Replacing his mask, Adrien made his way to his cousin, who, as usual, was surrounded by a small group of courtiers. She glanced up as he approached and, with a smile to the rest, took his proffered arm. As he looked at her sweet face, a thrill ran through him at the purity of her beauty--so great a contrast to that of the woman he had just dismissed that he loathed the very thought of ever having touched her hand. In that moment, the love he bore Constance welled up passionately in his heart, refusing to be suppressed, and again he tore off the velvet mask.
When the girl raised her calm eyes to his face, the ardent look in his startled her, and she determined to at least listen to any explanation he wished to give her. "Where have you been, Adrien?" she said gently. "I thought you had forgotten me."
"No!" he answered sharply, "that would be impossible; but I was called away. Do you care for this dance? Or, would you give me just a few moments with you alone on the terrace?"
Her eyes softened.
"Yes, if you like, Adrien," she said gently. "I am really tired now, and longing for the air."
"Come, then," he said; and catching up a silken wrap that lay on one of the seats, he threw it tenderly over her.
Together they passed out on to the terrace, and seemed to have slipped into another world, so great a contrast was the peaceful moonlit valley beneath them to the brilliant, heated ball-room they had just left.
As the curtained door swung behind them, Jasper Vermont,aliasMephistopheles--his scarlet costume now changed to ordinary evening dress, and covered with a long black domino, similar to that which Ada had donned--shot a sharp glance after them; then, with a sinister smile, he left the room by another exit, and made his way into the grounds. Keeping well within the shadow of the trees and shrubs, he crouched down, directly under the terrace where Adrien had led Constance; here, motionless and scarcely breathing, he listened with eager ears.
"It is hot," said Constance, removing her mask, and letting the wrap fall back from her shoulders.
"All the more reason you should be careful," said Adrien, replacing it gently.
She smiled, as she gazed up at him.
"You look very tired," she said softly. "This ball has been a strain on you, has it not?"
"Not more than usual," he returned. "At any rate, it will be my last for some time to come."
"Your last!" she echoed, looking up at him with wide, startled eyes. "What do you mean, Adrien?"
"I am going away after to-night," he said hoarsely; for the sight of her beauty was goading him almost to despair.
"Going away!" she hardly breathed the words; her face had paled in the moonlight, till it looked almost unearthly. "Why?"
"You ask me why?" he murmured, his forehead damp with the force of his emotion. "You, who know how I love you--worship your very shadow!"
She trembled under the passion of his gaze.
"Adrien!" she exclaimed, in low, reproachful tones. "Why do you speak to me like that, when I know how little your words really mean?"
"Little!" he cried with suppressed passion. "Ah, Constance, why are you so cruel to me? Why do you so misjudge me, when I would gladly die to serve you?"
The earnestness in his tones was unmistakable; but she kept her face turned from him, and he knew only from the quick-drawn breath that she had heard him.
"Constance," he pleaded, "look at me, dear. Give me this one chance. I shall never trouble you again."
"You have no right----" she began tremulously.
"No right to tell you I love you. Do you think I don't know that?" he burst out. "It is just that very knowledge which has burnt itself into me, and seared my very soul."
"What knowledge?" she asked, forgetful, in the suddenness of his attack, the tactics she had adopted with regard to Lord Standon.
"The knowledge of your engagement," he answered hoarsely. "Ah, Constance, be merciful. Surely not even Standon himself would grudge me these last few moments."
"What has Lord Standon to do with me?" she asked, looking him full in the face with steadfast eyes.
He stared at her in amazement.
"Is he not your accepted lover?"
His voice betrayed his agony of spirit; and, hearing this, she relented. Holding up her left hand, the third finger of which was bare of rings, she said quietly, almost, indeed, demurely:
"This does not look like it, does it?"
The light of hope, new-born, flashed into his face. He sprang forward eagerly.
"Constance!" he cried. "My darling! You will try to care for me then----?" He would have taken her in his arms; but she held him off at arm's length.
"No! no, Adrien," she interrupted sadly. "Because I am not engaged to Lord Standon, is that any reason why I should love one who treats me so lightly?"
"I treat you lightly, you--the one woman I have ever truly loved? Constance, whatever sins I may have committed, you are my first love, and you will be my last. I am not worthy to touch your hand, as pure as it is white, but will you not forgive me the folly of my past life, and let me live in hope that I may do better? I swear from this day forth to cast off the old life, with all its emptiness and folly, and lay the future at your feet."
As his passionate words ceased, she turned to him.
"Adrien, I do not know what to think," she said in low, troubled tones. "I wrote to you last month--that day we came up to London, believing that perhaps you had learned to care a little for me; but when you deliberately spent the day with another woman, sooner than with me, what am I to think?"
"What do you mean?" he asked hoarsely.
"I saw you," she returned simply, "when we were at the station, auntie and I, on the twenty-second----"
"The twenty-second!" he echoed, through blanched lips.
"Yes, you were at Waterloo Station with some one, I did not see her face. But what does it matter now? If you had cared----" She stopped abruptly.
"I do care," he reiterated passionately. "Heaven above knows that; but I do not hope to make you believe me. Constance, I can give neither you nor any living being the explanation of that awful day. But I swear to you that the meeting was unsought by me. I could not help myself. I do not know how all this has come about. I understood from Standon that--that he was engaged to----"
"Muriel Branton," interrupted Constance softly. "He told me himself."
For a moment Adrien stared at her in stupefaction.
"If I had known we were at cross-purposes!" he exclaimed. "I see it all now--when it is too late," and sinking down on the stone seat he buried his face in his hands.
For a minute there was silence, broken at last by the rustle of Lady Constance's dress as she came timidly towards him.
"Adrien," she murmured, very low indeed, but not so low that he did not hear.
He looked up, gave one swift glance at her blushing face, then, with an incoherent cry of delight, caught her in his arms.
"My darling!" he cried. "I love you. Believe that, though I failed you so."
No further words were spoken--none were needed; then Adrien said gently:
"Darling, before we return, tell me, just once--let me hear it from your own lips, that you love me; for I can scarcely believe I am awake."
"It is no dream, Adrien," she said, her face flushing and quivering with pent-up emotion. "I love you, dear."
Again he clasped her in his arms and neither heard a step behind them. It was not until a warning cough roused them, that Adrien started, and became aware of the presence of Mr. Jasper Vermont.
CHAPTER XXII
While the preparations for the ball at Barminster Castle had been going on apace, trouble and confusion reigned in the little village on the banks of the Thames.
No sooner had Mr. Jasper Vermont taken his departure, than poor Lucy Ashford sank on the floor of the shop, and burst into a flood of tears. So great had been the strain that she was completely unnerved, and had quite forgotten the likelihood of her husband's return from Richmond, as well as the mysterious disappearance of Jessica, who had not been seen in the house since the arrival of Adrien Leroy and his unconscious burden.
This sudden realisation of all the presentiment of evil which Lucy Ashford had ever in her mind, had burst on her like a thunderbolt. She had known always that the man, Mr. Jasper Vermont, who knew her secret, was alive; but never before had she been actually threatened with its betrayal. Her father, Mr. Harker, had always stood between her and that dreadful possibility.
Presently, she jumped up and called to Jessica. Then she remembered that the girl had disappeared from the time she had sent her from the room. Fearful that Vermont might yet change his mind and return for the night, she ran to the door, calling out Jessica's name in a paroxysm of nervous terror, which finally, on receiving no reply, ended in a severe attack of hysterics, in the midst of which her husband returned and found her.
With an exclamation of alarm, he raised her from the floor and bore her upstairs to the bed on which Lady Merivale had lain such a short time ago. He was greatly puzzled by the disordered appearance of the room, and his first thought was of burglars. He gave no time to this, however, but hastened to get his wife into bed, then rushed out for a doctor. When he returned with him it was found that Lucy had relapsed into a state of fever, and was talking deliriously, of an inn at Canterbury, an individual of the name of Johann Wilfer, and most of all, making plaintive appeals to Jasper Vermont not to betray her.
As the next day Jessica had not returned, Ashford found all his work cut out for him, to see after the shop and the children, as well as his wife. A kindly neighbour came to his rescue; but John insisted on nursing Lucy himself, while the woman remained downstairs.
At first, the husband paid little attention to the wandering, incoherent sentences of his wife; but as the first excitement died down, and they began to take distinct form, he bent over her, and learned the one error of her life. Naturally, poor John recoiled in horror; the whole thing seemed so incredible, so impossible to believe. Yet, when he had had time to reflect, he saw that this explained all the little strangenesses in his wife's conduct and manner; her intense nervousness at the sight of any stranger; her reticence as to her youthful days; all this was borne in on his mind, and he realised that he had been deceived. His wife, in whom he had so trusted, had loved another before him; and at the bitter truth, John Ashford utterly broke down, and, hiding his face in the counterpane, sobbed like a child. Tears sometimes are Nature's own medicine, and do more to soften the heart than any words. After the first shock had worn away, Ashford commenced to look back on the happy days he had spent with Lucy; the way she had worked with him, and for him. These thoughts did their healing work, and accordingly, a few days later, when Lucy Ashford returned to consciousness, she found her husband's eyes gazing into hers with only pitying tenderness in their depths.
"John," she said faintly, "have I been ill?"
"Yes, dear," he replied gently.
Something in his saddened tones, or perhaps strange intuition, told Lucy that her secret was no longer hers alone.
"John!" she cried, her voice shaking with terror and weakness. "You know all!" And she hid her face in her hands.
Her husband bent over her tenderly and kissed the thin cheek.
"Yes, dear," he said. "You've told me all. Why didn't you trust me before?"
She looked at him in wonder, hardly believing the evidence of her own ears. Was this all the reproach and anger he would deal out to her? Could it be possible that, knowing all, the man she had loved, yet feared, solely on this account, would not only forgive but take her into his heart again? As if in answer to her bewildered thoughts, John's arm was around her neck, and his kiss of forgiveness fell upon her lips.
Presently, she looked up, with a look of ineffable peace and gratitude on her face.
"John," she said, "send for poor father; it will be new life to him to know that this dreadful weight is off my heart, and that you, knowing what a bad woman I have been, will still call me your wife. Oh, fetch him to me soon, dear, that he may be happy too."
Her husband kissed her again, and without another word left the room. Giving some directions to the neighbour who was still in the shop, he set out at once on his journey. He drove into Hampton and took the first train to London, where he intended to tell his father-in-law the whole story, and learn what details he could; for he did not wish ever to bring up the subject again, so far as Lucy was concerned.
Now it happened that Mr. Harker was late at the office that night, bending, sad and wrinkled, over his interminable papers; the whole business connected with which was so repugnant to him. Sigh after sigh escaped his thin lips, as he read the piteous appeals, and knew that he must refuse them; must deal out fresh misery against his will. It was hard to be the tool of such a merciless fiend; to be the servant of such a master of deceit, villainy and fraud; but so greatly did the father love his child that he would scarce have hesitated in committing a murder had Jasper Vermont set that crime as a price of his forbearance and silence. He would have purchased his daughter's safety and happiness with his heart's blood, if need be.
Unconscious of the release that was so fast approaching, he worked on, setting in order the various accounts which Vermont would require to be laid before him on the following day; and entering in a book concise histories of the debts and difficulties which placed dozens of Jasper's acquaintances within his power.
A knock at the door startled him, and roused him from his task. Hastily shutting the ledger before which he was seated, and covering the deeds and documents with a large sheet of paper, the old man rose and opened the door.
It was his son-in-law, John Ashford, and at the sight of his round, kindly face, Harker staggered back, and clutched at the table.
"Lucy!" he gasped out. "Is she ill?"
"All right! All right!" said John reassuringly, but in a quieter voice than his usual jovial one. "Don't be frightened. But when she says 'Go and fetch father,' you see, I come and fetch you directly."
Mr. Harker was not to be deceived by this attempt at a jest.
"She is ill!" he cried, the perspiration breaking out on his forehead.
John nodded.
"She is better now," he said. "But I should like you to come down at once. We shall catch a train to Hampton Court, and I have a trap waiting for me there." Without any further explanation--for after thinking the matter over, he had determined that Lucy herself should break the news to her father--he helped the old man, still trembling and shaking, to put on his coat, and to lock up the office; and it was not until they were well on their way, that John told him how he had found his wife a fortnight ago, lying unconscious on the ground.
Mr. Harker's troubled face darkened, and his thin hands clenched and unclenched themselves, for he knew Mr. Vermont only too well, and the thought had already crossed his mind that this sudden illness was in some way due to that gentleman's interference.
Outside Hampton Court station they found the horse and cart for which John had arranged; and the two men got in silently and started off once more. They were within a short distance of their destination, when John pulled up the horse with an exclamation of astonishment. They were in a narrow lane, with barely room enough for the cart to pass along, and almost within a yard of the horse's hoofs stood the figure of a young girl.
Ashford recognised her in an instant; with a shout of warning, he threw the reins to his father-in-law and, leaping to the ground, caught the girl by the arm.
"Jessica!" he cried reproachfully. "What are you doing here?"
She looked up at him in silence, and her eyes filled with tears.
"I am coming back to you," she said at last, in a low voice, "if you will have me? There was some one I wanted to see again in London, or I would never have gone; for, oh! sir, I know how good you and Mrs. Ashford have been to me."
John appeared relieved.
"I thought you weren't one of the sort to go off and leave my Lucy just because she was ill and wanted extra help," he said, in a tone of relief.
"Ill," repeated Jessica, with a look of bewilderment. "She was not ill when I left her. It was the other lady who was ill."
John, of course, knew nothing of Lady Merivale, and gazed at Jessica as though she had taken leave of her senses.
"I don't know what lady you mean," he said; "but my wife has been very ill for the past two weeks, and asking for you often. You see, I thought you had run away and left her."
"I will drive back with you, please, sir, if you have room for me. I didn't know Mrs. Ashford was ill," said the girl, humbly following him, as he turned towards the trap.
He lifted her up, and fastened her in securely.
All this time Mr. Harker had taken no notice of the little episode, save to wonder slightly at the delay. But directly he caught sight of the vivid, dark beauty of the girl, he started.
"Who is this?" he asked John, who was hurriedly driving on again.
"A poor girl whom Lucy has befriended," he replied. "Why, did you think you recognised her?"
Mr. Harker shook his head. She strongly resembled some one he had seen; but, for the moment, he could not call to mind who that person was.
"What is her name?" he inquired.
"Jessica," replied his son-in-law. "She doesn't seem to know any other."
They drove on in silence, broken presently by Mr. Harker, who had stolen another glance at the silent girl.
"A wonderful likeness," he murmured. "I could have sworn that was Ada Lester, the actress, as she used to be."
He relapsed again into silence, and John was too much wrapped up in his own thoughts to question him further.
They reached the little shop at last, and Jessica ran lightly and quickly up to the bedroom. She was welcomed warmly by Lucy, who had grown to like the girl, and had been greatly upset by her absence.
"I'm glad you have come back, dear," she whispered, as Jessica bent over her. "Where have you been?"
"To London, dear Mrs. Ashford. I did not know you were ill. I came back with Mr. Ashford."
"John!" exclaimed Lucy, the colour rising in her face. "My father as well?"
"Yes," said the girl. "I will call them."
She did so, and a moment later John and Mr. Harker entered the room.
"Here he is, dear, you shall tell him the news yourself, while I take the horse back," said the kindly John. He bent over and kissed her; and Lucy followed him with wistful, adoring eyes, as he went out accompanied by Jessica.
The next half-hour was an affecting one for father and daughter. Harker could hardly believe the good news; for so long had they tried and succeeded in keeping the truth back from Ashford, that it seemed incredible indeed that he had forgiven freely and wholly. Mr. Harker looked a different being when, after kissing his daughter affectionately, he left her and went down to the little parlour.
John was sitting smoking his pipe; but he started up when the old man entered.
"What is the matter?" he said, as he looked at his pale face. "Is she worse?"
"No," said Harker. "She is better, thank Heaven! John Ashford," he continued humbly, "I have come to beg your forgiveness for the pain we have caused you. I knew my girl to be a good girl, although she had once been so foolish. I knew she would make you a true loving wife, in spite of her sin. It was I who overcame her scruples, and bade her marry you. I did it for the best. I did it that she might be happy; for I knew how she loved you, and she so feared to lose your love and respect. She tells me you have forgiven her, but can you forgive me?"
John grasped his hand.
"Of course I do," he said heartily. "You did it for her so I have nothing to forgive. If my poor darling had only plucked up courage and told me all, the hour we were man and wife, she would have learned how dearly I loved her, and it would have saved you both many unhappy years."
Tears of gratitude stood in Harker's eyes, as he returned the handclasp.
"Heaven bless you, John," he murmured. "Not many men would be so merciful. We will never speak of this again. You will not repent your generosity."
"What are you going to do?" asked Ashford; struck by something unusual in the old man's voice.
"I am going back to London," said Harker, smiling grimly, as in anticipation of a pleasant task. "I have work to do, an account to settle now--for Lucy and myself. You don't know all yet, John; you don't know, you never will know, all that Lucy and I have suffered."
He paused as if overcome by his emotion; then continued in trembling voice:
"We have been slaves all these years, trembling and shrinking under a villain's nod and frown. I've sold myself to a demon, who, in consideration of my services--of my body and soul--promised to keep his talons from my poor Lucy. He discovered her mistake; and he threatened to let the whole world know, to tell you all, if I did not bind myself to do his villainous work. I have done it for years. I have endured shame and agony unspeakable, that my darling's secret might be safe. I have been his tool and his scapegoat. I, an old man, on my way to the grave, have earned--and rightly earned--the names of usurer and thief. All this I have done and suffered that he should never blight my child's happiness by his presence. He has broken the contract. He came down here that night you went to Richmond, and, with his fiendish ways and threats, nearly killed her. Well, now his power has gone. Thanks to your generosity, your forgiveness, Lucy is free, and I am free. Now I take my turn, and for every tear he has wrung from my darling's eyes, I will wring a groan from his black heart."
John had listened to him with intense surprise. He knew his father-in-law was in business in the City; but he did not know that the business of "Harker's," for which he had a great respect, had anything to do with moneylending. Still he refrained from asking any questions; and seeing that Mr. Harker was practically exhausted by the excitement and the news, persuaded him to spend the remainder of the night with them, and travel back to town in the morning.
After reflection the old man agreed to this; and it was a very happy little party that met at the breakfast-table next day.
Mr. Harker, unable to sleep, had let his thoughts go back to Jessica; and in the silence of the night a picture had arisen before his eyes; a theatre in which a dark-eyed young girl was dancing, amidst a crowd of others. In his delight at having a clue he cried aloud, "Ada Lester, at the Rockingham!" The more he thought of it the more sure he felt that this girl must be the daughter, or at least some connection, of the well-known actress.
On questioning Jessica, all the information he could obtain from her was that which she had given Adrien Leroy. Johann Wilfer was the boundary of her existence. Harker remembered the name as that of the man from whom he had bought the picture, and he also knew now that he it was who had been responsible for Lucy's early sin. But he was not to be shaken from his belief that in some way Jessica must be related to Ada Lester, and he asked the girl whether she would travel up to London with him, and trust herself to his care.
Jessica looked up into his lined face.
"Yes," she said simply, "if you won't give me back to Johann."
Harker readily promised this, and, amid many smiles and wavings of hand from the assembled Ashford family, the two started on their way.
On reaching London, Mr. Harker's first visit was to the Casket Theatre, which Jessica at once remembered as the one before which she had kept watch for Adrien Leroy; and with that recollection came the memory of the roll of papers which she had picked up. She related this little incident to Harker; and undoing the bag in which kind-hearted Lucy had put some clothes for her, she found the papers and gave them to him.
Harker looked them over, and gave a cry of joy; for he realised at once that they delivered his arch-enemy into his hands--no miracle from Heaven itself could have done more. Jessica did not understand the reason for his excitement, but she was quite content to let the papers remain in his keeping.
At the theatre he inquired for Miss Lester; and, it being matinée day, he found that the popular actress had already arrived. It took time and money to convince the military-looking door-keeper that it was absolutely necessary to take an urgent message to Miss Lester, but eventually this was done, and Mr. Harker, with Jessica---who was almost dazed by the strangeness of her surroundings--found themselves in Miss Lester's dressing-room, a few minutes before she was due on the stage as Prince Bon-Bon.
Mr. Harker at once hastened to apologise for the intrusion; but, in the midst of his words, he broke off short, for Jessica and the actress were gazing at one another in a mutual recognition. Jessica remembered her at once as the lady who had been with Adrien Leroy; then came the earlier memory, which had so puzzled her on the night she had seen the actress entering the theatre.
"Jessica!" exclaimed Miss Lester, blankly, and she turned on the astounded Harker. "What's the meaning of this?"
The few minutes were nearly up, and the call-boy and the dresser had met in several consultations with regard to the difficulty of getting Miss Lester on to the stage in time, before Mr. Harker's explanations were through.
Ada, now thoroughly assured as to her own future, thanks to her recent visit to Barminster, was quite willing to look after her niece better than in the past; especially as her presence formed a strong link in the chain of evidence the actress intended shortly to bring against Jasper Vermont. She assured Harker that she would take care of the girl, and with this he was content; then, leaving Jessica in her aunt's charge, he made his way to his own office, prior to taking a journey down to Barminster Castle.