While Lesbia was thus having so miserable a time, George Walker was living very quietly, sometimes in London, but more often in Medmenham. He carefully avoided all mention of Lesbia's name, and when his mother questioned him regarding his reason for refusing to renew the engagement he declined to explain. Mrs. Walker was much annoyed by what she termed his mule-headedness as, after her visit to Rose Cottage, she was quite willing that Lesbia should become her daughter-in-law.
"I cannot understand you, George," said Mrs. Walker to her son during one of their frequent wrangles. "When I objected to this girl, nothing would do but that you must marry her. Now that I have taken a fancy to her, you refuse to have anything to do with her. I never thought a son of mine would blow hot and cold in this silly fashion."
"I am not blowing hot or cold," returned George gloomily; he was very, very gloomy in those days and had lost all his light-heartedness. "Lesbia is the only girl in the world that I care to marry. But how can I make her my wife, when I haven't a penny to keep her with?"
"That is mere evasion. Things are very little changed from the time you would have married her in the teeth of poverty."
"There is this much change, that I have lost my situation with Tait and am now living on my mother, which is the meanest thing a man can do. How then can I renew my engagement with Lesbia?"
"Because I wish you to," said Mrs. Walker promptly, and bent her black brows.
"I understood you hated her."
"Indeed, I never did," she rejoined sharply. "How could I hate anyone whom I had never seen? Don't be a fool, George. I certainly hated her father and I hate him still, for a very good reason, which it does not concern you to know. But after I saw the girl I repented that I had not been to see her before, since you loved her. She is an innocent darling, and I should like no one better for my daughter. It would be unfair to visit the sins of the father on so sweet a child."
"Yet if the child wasn't sweet," said George drily, "you would not mind doing so. You are somewhat inconsistent."
"I am not so inconsistent as you are," said his mother, skilfully avoiding a reply by carrying the war into hic camp. "What I wish to know is--why do you decline to renew your engagement?"
"I have no money and no situation."
"That isn't the true reason.
"It is the sole reason which I choose to give."
"There is no necessity to be rude, George," said Mrs. Walker with great dignity. "Cannot you get another situation?"
"Not easily. Tait will give me no references, nor do I care to ask him for any. Situations are hard to get without references."
Mrs. Walker clasped her strong, white hands together and frowned. "It is quite absurd that my son and the son of your father should be a mere clerk in the City," she burst out. "Can't you do something better?"
"No," replied George gloomily. "I am not clever, and I have not been brought up to any trade."
"Trade! Trade! My son in trade."
George was sad enough at heart, yet could not forbear smiling at the horror expressed on her countenance. "There is nothing disgraceful in trade," he remarked quietly. "My grandfather Morse was a merchant."
"And your grandfather Casterton was an earl," snapped Mrs. Walker. "There's your uncle, the present owner of the title. Why not go to him, and see if he cannot assist you?"
"And when I ask him, what excuse can I make?"
"He is your uncle: he has every right to assist you."
"I fear he might not see things in the same light, mother. Besides I have no qualifications." George paused, then added gloomily: "An out-of-door colonial life would suit me. Give me enough to get to Canada or Australia, mother, and there I can carve my way."
"What about me?" asked Mrs. Walker reproachfully.
"I would make a home for you beyond the seas and you can come out later."
Mrs. Walker shook her head. "I am too old to travel so far," she said grimly, "moreover, I intend to wait until I get the fortune of my sister. She is dead: I am sure from what Walter Hale says that there is no child, so in the end Jabez must give me the fifty thousand pounds. That money would put all things right: your marriage included."
"Not with Lesbia," said the young man colouring. "There is no chance of our coming together. Besides, to get the money you must find that cross."
"Nothing of the sort," said his mother quickly, "Jabez only requires its production by a possible child, as a means of identification, a very silly idea I call it. But he knows that I am Judith Morse, and so by my father's will inherit, now that my sister is dead."
George shook his head doggedly. "I believe that you will never get the fortune until that cross is found."
"Then find it."
"I can't. I have tried my best to learn who assaulted me and robbed this cottage, but I am still in the dark."
This ended the conversation for the time being. But as the days went by Mrs. Walker still continued to express her disgust at George's obstinacy regarding Lesbia. She knew that he still loved the girl, and could not think why he should refuse to renew the engagement in the face of Lesbia's letter. Of course the excuse of having no situation was rubbish, so Mrs. Walker decided, as Lesbia was willing to marry him without one penny. If he truly loved her, as she did him, poverty would be no bar. When was poverty ever a bar to the union of two young hearts? Even admitting that George wanted to provide a home before renewing the engagement, he surely could have seen Lesbia and explained his reasons for behaving as he was doing. But he never went near Marlow, and refused to mention her name. As Mrs. Walker, being as obstinate as her son, insisted on discussing his unfortunate love affair, and wrangling over the same, George took to remaining for days in London on the plea that he was looking for work. Time thus passed very miserably for the grim widow.
One day George came down with the news that he had received a note from Lord Charvington, asking him to call at The Court, Maidenhead. Why he should wish to see him George could not guess, as he had never met him. But in the letter Charvington said that he had been a friend of Aylmer Walker, and so desired the interview. Mrs. Walker was also puzzled. She was well acquainted with Lord Charvington, but after her scampish husband's death she had kept away from the former society she frequented, on account of her poverty.
All the same, she advised George to keep the appointment, which was made for the next day, if only to hear what Charvington had to talk about.
It was strange, a coincidence in fact, that Lady Charvington's motor should stop on the afternoon of that very day at the gate of the Medmenham cottage. Never before to George's knowledge had his mother mentioned Lord Charvington's name, yet on the very day when it was on her lips, because of the letter, the wife of the nobleman arrived to pay a visit. Why she should do so was not quite clear, and Mrs. Walker entered the drawing-room with a frown. She and her sister Kate had been school-girls together, and she had never approved of the lady. Her greeting was very cold.
"How are you, Helen?" she said, extending the tips of her fingers. "It is a surprise to see you in my humble abode."
"I would have called before, only I knew that you did not wish to see me, Judith," said Lady Charvington, sinking gracefully into the nearest arm-chair; "but I have come on business."
Mrs. Walker sat also, and folded her hands on the lap of her black dress with her usual grim smile. "Of course, I knew that you would not waste your valuable time in coming for nothing. But what business you can have with me I fail to see. We were never good friends, and you positively hated Kate because she was prettier than you."
"She never was," said Lady Charvington hotly, and glanced in the silver-framed hand-mirror, which stood on the table at her elbow. "Kate had not my complexion, nor my hair."
"Nor your nasty temper," snapped Mrs. Walker, who felt extremely nasty herself; "but I don't know why we should talk of good looks at our age."
"I am not old, Judith: you are older than I am."
"Quite so, and I wear ever so much better. You look twice your age."
Lady Charvington made a face. "You were always a disagreeable girl," she pouted, "I daresay I am growing no younger, but you need not tell me so. As to my looks, if you were as worried as I am, you would not look your best either. So I--who is that?" she inquired as George, ignorant that his mother had a visitor, tapped at the French window of the drawing-room.
"My son George," said Mrs. Walker, rising to admit him.
"Oh!" cried Lady Charvington vivaciously. "Lesbia's George."
"My son, Lady Charvington," said Mrs. Walker, introducing the pair. "George, this is an old friend of mine."
Lady Charvington looked at the splendidly handsome young man and secretly envied her hostess. Neither of her children was so good-looking, and moreover, what she always regretted, she had provided no heir to the title.
"So you are Lesbia's George," she said again, not offering her hand, but putting up her lorgnette. "Well, the girl has taste."
George coloured under her impertinent gaze and at the sudden mention of Lesbia. He no more expected Lady Charvington to mention the girl than he had expected she would arrive on the very day when her name had first been mentioned in the cottage--that is, her husband's name. "What do you know of Lesbia, Lady Charvington?" he asked, taking a chair.
She gave an artificial laugh. "Nothing very creditable."
The young man started and grew an angry red. Mrs. Walker frowned, and making a sign that her son should be silent, spoke for him. "What do you mean by running down the girl, Helen? Let me tell you that Lesbia's name must be mentioned in this house only with respect."
"Oh, I know that she loves your son, and that he loves her--unfortunately."
"Why so?" asked George very directly, and still red with anger. He was beginning to dislike this pretty, perfumed, dainty woman, who looked as frivolous as his mother was stately.
"Because she is, I shrewdly suspect, a--a----" Lady Charvington hesitated, for the young man looked so angry, and Mrs. Walker so grim, that she feared to bring out the hateful word. "Well, the fact is," she rattled on, "I have lost an amethyst cross, and I believe this Lesbia Hale has taken it."
"An amethyst cross," repeated George, astonished, too much so in fact to repel the accusation against Lesbia with the promptitude he wished. "A cross consisting of four amethyst stones with a green cube of malachite in the centre bearing a crown, and inscribed 'Refuse and Lose'?"
"Yes." Lady Charvington was astonished. "Do you know it?"
"Of course I do. It belongs to me."
"To you. Impossible. It is, as I believe the property of Lord Charvington, and was stolen with other jewels from The Court a few days ago."
"But how did it get to The Court--how did it come into your possession?"
"It came into my possession a few weeks ago. I entered the library during my husband's absence and found this cross on his table. Wondering why he had such a jewel, and thinking that he had bought it for me, I took it to my room. Charvington went away before I could speak to him about it and never made any inquiries--strange to say--as to its being taken away, I placed it in my jewel case, and forgot all about it. Then my case was stolen by two London thieves a few days ago, and the cross also."
"You declared that Lesbia stole it," said Mrs. Walker grimly, "and now you say that two thieves----"
"Lesbia was in league with them."
George sprang to his feet. "That's wholly false, Lady Charvington. That is----" he became aware of his rudeness and stammered, "you--you must be mistaken."
"I am never mistaken," said the visitor in icy tones. "Your son has not very good manners, Judith."
"They are my manners," said Mrs. Walker fiercely, "and don't you find fault with them. He has only said what I intended to say, only more politely."
Before Lady Charvington could snap out a reply, George, now very pale, intervened. "Perhaps, madam, you will explain upon what grounds you base this charge against Miss Hale."
"Oh, certainly," rejoined Lady Charvington sharply, "the whole world might know what I have to say, and the whole world would," she added spitefully, "only my husband, who seems to have taken a fancy to this girl, has hushed up the matter."
"He has more sense than you have," muttered Mrs. Walker, "badly as he treated----" she checked herself with a side glance at George, "but that is neither here nor there. Go on, Helen, and explain."
Lady Charvington, in order to make George writhe--for she saw that he loved Lesbia deeply, and resented the fact--was only too ready to give details of the robbery at The Court with all the venom of which her very bitter tongue was capable. She related everything that had happened from the hour of Lesbia's arrival, to the moment of her departure. "And in disgrace," ended the lady exultingly, "certainly private disgrace, since for some silly reason Charvington made me hold my tongue, but disgrace nevertheless. Now what do you think?"
"Think"--George, standing with a white face and clenched hands, took the words out of his mother's mouth--"I think that you are a very wicked woman, Lady Charvington. Lesbia is as innocent as a dove."
"I know nothing of the morals of doves," retorted Lady Charvington coolly, "but you seem to forget that I stated how this girl's father was one of the thieves. Who the other one was I can't say, but Lesbia certainly recognised her father. Bertha, my maid, heard her exclamation, while she was lying half stunned on the floor."
"I am not astonished," said Mrs. Walker bitterly. "Walter Hale is capable of all things, although I did not know that he would descend quite so low. I never liked him as you did, Helen."
"Leave the past alone," said Lady Charvington with an angry gesture; "but you can see that this Lesbia creature was her father's accomplice."
"Speak more respectfully of Lesbia if you please," said George in a cold white fury. "She is perfectly innocent, and knew no more of her father's wickedness than----"
"Than you did, I suppose."
"You are wrong. I knew some weeks ago, that Walter Hale had to do with a gang of thieves."
"George," cried his mother aghast; "you never told me."
"There was no need to," he said quickly, "I know that Hale, acting by Tait's orders, stole the jewels from----"
"Was this why you broke your engagement with Lesbia, or rather why you would not renew it?"
"That was the reason," said George awkwardly.
Mrs. Walker stood up sternly. "Then you believe that Lesbia is an accomplice."
"No, I don't. My reason is different."
"You refuse to marry the daughter of a thief perhaps," said Lady Charvington mockingly.
"I do not. My reason--never mind. I can explain my reason to Lesbia when I see her," said George, standing very straight and looking very determined.
"You intend to see her, then?" asked his mother.
"This very evening."
"I shall come also," said Mrs. Walker quickly.
"If that is so," drawled Lady Charvington, "perhaps you will ask her what she has done with the cross."
"She has not got it," cried George. "How can she have it when you declared that her father stole it and----"
"Oh," Lady Charvington laughed cruelly, "I daresay her father gave her the amethyst cross, as her share of the plunder."
"Helen, hold your bitter tongue," cried Mrs. Walker wrathfully.
"If you speak of Lesbia in that way, or dare to smirch her fair fame," said George very deliberately, "I shall make it my business to make things unpleasant all round."
"As how?" asked Lady Charvington, putting up her lorgnette.
"To-morrow I am to see Lord Charvington by appointment----"
"I was not aware that you knew my husband."
"I do not, but he wrote to me, and I am to see him."
"Ah!" drawled Lady Charvington coolly, "perhaps knowing that you love this wretched girl my husband intends to arrange that you shall marry her and take her out of the country."
The young man restrained his anger by a violent effort. "Perhaps you are correct, madam," he said in a thick voice and breathing hard. "But I shall also ask Lord Charvington how the cross came to be in his possession."
"No!" Lady Charvington shrieked and seemed much perturbed. "You must not do that."
"Madam," said George in a stately manner and following up his advantage, "I am the owner of that cross, which was given to me by Miss Hale. I was assaulted on the towing-path so that I might be robbed of it. As the thief did not find it on my person he burgled this cottage and took it from my room. I have every right to ask Lord Charvington how he became possessed of it."
The visitor rose with rather a pale face but quite composed, and shook perfume from her costly draperies as she gathered up her belongings to depart. "Things are bad for Lesbia Hale as it is," she said composedly. "I advise you to ask no questions of my husband, or he may withdraw his protection from her. If he does, she is disgraced, publicly."
"I don't believe it," said Mrs. Walker, crossing to the window and opening it. "You can leave my cottage by this way, Helen, and the sooner the better."
Lady Charvington swept towards the French window with a careless laugh, obviously forced. "I am only too willing to go," she declared. "I only came over to ask you to question Lesbia Hale as to what she has done with my amethyst cross."
"Mine, pardon me," said George firmly, as he held the window open, "and you may be sure that I shall marry Lesbia and protect Lesbia even against you who seem to hate her, Heaven only knows why."
"Your mother knows," sneered Lady Charvington. "Well, do what you like, only remember that I have warned you!" and with these ominous words she took her welcome departure.
"What is next to be done?" asked Mrs. Walker, when the motor hummed away.
"We must see Lesbia," said George firmly. "What has been said brings us together at last."
When Lesbia returned to Rose Cottage, after her unlucky visit to The Court, she found that her father had never been near the place. Tim, who was alone in the house when she arrived, explained that Hale had gone to London within an hour of Lesbia's departure with Lady Charvington in the motor car. There was nothing in this to surprise the little Irishman, as Hale's comings and goings were always more or less abrupt. But he was amazed and startled when he heard what Lesbia had to tell; the revelation being occasioned by Tim's distressed remark on the girl's pallor.
"Ah now, Miss, an' what hey ye bin doin' wid yer purty silf at all, at all? Sure the face av ye's as white as a carpse."
Lesbia burst into tears. "Oh Tim, I sometimes wish that I was one, for I feel so very miserable. George will have nothing to do with me; Lady Charvington hates me, and my father, my father----"
"Phwat av him?" asked Tim anxiously.
"Can't you guess?" asked Lesbia, drying her eyes, and wondering how much or how little the man knew of Hale's rascalities.
Tim's face remained passive, but he could not keep a certain amount of anxiety out of his eyes. "Sure, the masther isn't a good man," he said in a hesitating manner, "he trates ye like a brute baste, Miss."
"It's worse than that," sobbed Lesbia, breaking down again.
The servant changed colour and raised his hands in mute despair. When he did find his voice, it was to ask a leading question. "An' how much do ye know, me dear?"
"I know that my father is a thief."
"Augh! the shame av it," muttered Tim, but did not contradict.
Lesbia noticed that he was less surprised than he should have been. "You knew that."
"Mary be good to us all!" said Tim sadly. "But I know a mighty lot I'd rather not know, me dear. But are ye sure, Miss?"
Lesbia sat up, dried her eyes, and detailed all that had happened. Tim listened in dismayed silence with his sad eyes on her pale face, and she heard him grind his teeth when it came to an account of Lady Charvington's accusation. When she ended he still kept silence.
"What do you think of it all, Tim?" asked his mistress, anxious to hear what he had to say.
"It's black lies that woman spakes," cried Tim vehemently. "Ye nivir knew av the masther's wrongdoin'."
"Did you, Tim?"
"I knew a trifle, an' guessed a mighty lot. Nivir ask me, miss, phwat I know till his lardship--an' sure he's a good man--spakes the wurrd. But I know wan thing, me dear heart, that the blackest clouds have the blissid sun behint thim."
"There is no sun behind these clouds," said Lesbia, sighing.
"An' there yer wrong, Miss," said Tim briskly. "Sure, whin them clouds do let the blissid sun sind out th' light av him, ye'll foind pace an' happiness an' joy galore. Lave things to his lardship. The crass began the throuble, an' the crass will end that same."
"Tim! Tim, what do you know about the cross?"
"Ah, nivir ask me phwat I know," croaked Tim again. "There's whales within whales, me dear, an' me mouth's bin saled fur many a year. But whin his lardship spakes I spake, and thin ye'll be as happy as thim who dwell in Tirnanoge."
"What's that, Tim?"
"The land av youth where ye and Masther Garge shud be, an' will be, whin the blissid saints in glory let ye come into ye'r own." And after delivering himself of this agreeable prophecy, Tim shuffled away to prepare dinner.
Lesbia was much astonished at the hints thus given, and also much perplexed. Tim seemed to know of the significance of the amethyst cross, of the rascality of her father, and also he appeared to know about Lord Charvington as a possibledeus ex machina, who would make the crooked quite straight. Later in the evening she questioned the little man persistently, but Tim, as wily as an otter, evaded a direct reply, only insisting that everything would come right in a most unexpected way. With this Lesbia would scarcely have been content, but that her attention was taken away from the future to deal with the present.
Urged by Tim, and now feeling more hopeful as she recalled Charvington's promise to stand by her, Lesbia made a moderately good dinner. While Tim was washing up in the kitchen, she sat near the window of the tiny parlour reading the first book that came to hand. But the pages did not interest her and, moreover, it soon grew too dark to read without lights. Lesbia did not call for these, as she liked the pensive twilight, and so dreamed of George and future happiness in the gloaming. There was just light enough to see across the room, so she started with surprise and indignation when she saw her father suddenly appear in the doorway. He looked much the same as usual, but then the light was not strong enough to permit her to see the shame which must certainly have appeared on his face.
"Why have you come here?" asked Lesbia, rising indignantly.
"I have assuredly a right to enter my own house," retorted her father.
"It is not your house," she replied boldly. "Lord Charvington told me that it belonged to him, and declared that you would come here no more."
"Ah!" Hale lounged into the room, and dropped with a sigh of fatigue into a chair. "Charvington proposed more than he could perform; he always did."
"How did you come in?"
"By the back door, which was open. I rowed up from Cookham."
"You can't stop here," said Lesbia firmly.
"You can't prevent me," said her father, with a sneer.
"I can leave the house, and I will."
"Where will you go?"
"To Mrs. Walker; she will protect me. I will throw myself on her mercy. But I refuse to remain under the same roof as you."
Hale winced at the scorn in her tones. "You seem to forget that you are speaking to your father," he said in an icy manner.
"God help me!" cried the girl, with a gesture of despair; "I wish I could forget. You have brought shame upon me."
"Oh, rubbish," said Hale crossly. "I received a letter from Charvington in London just before I came down to Cookham which stated that if I restored the jewels everything would be hushed up."
"And you will do so?"
"I have to," said Hale grudgingly. "It's an infernal nuisance after all my trouble, but Charvington says that he will set the police on my track if I don't act square. I shall return the jewels to-morrow, and then everything will be put right. There is no disgrace to you."
"Isn't there?" said Lesbia, with a bitter laugh. "You appear to have forgotten that Bertha, the maid, heard my recognition of you, and told her mistress. Lady Charvington accused me of being your accomplice, and but that our cousin made her hold her tongue and silenced the maid, I should have been arrested as knowing your rogueries and sharing in them."
Hale muttered an oath between his teeth. "Upon my word that's too bad," he said half apologetically. "The woman had no right to speak of you in that way, as you are as innocent as a babe. However, if Charvington has hushed that up also, there is no harm done."
"Father," cried Lesbia, moving forward to confront him, "can you think that I will consent to live with you, now that I know of your wickedness?"
"What do you know, other than that I took Lady Charvington's jewels?" asked her father, defiantly.
"I know that you stole Mr. Tait's jewels by his direction."
"Who dares to say that?" demanded Hale, starting fiercely to his feet.
"Mr. Canning----"
"Mister," sneered Hale, savagely, "since when has he earned such respect."
"Mr. Canning is a gentleman and Captain Sargent's brother," said Lesbia in calm, easy tones. Now that she had come to close grips with her father she felt singularly cool.
Hale muttered a second oath. "I knew that The Shadow had betrayed us," he said ominously; "well, he shall pay for his treachery. His silly gratitude to you for nursing him has made him dishonourable to us."
"Dishonourable!" cried Lesbia, scornfully.
"Why not?" scoffed her father, "There is honour amongst thieves."
"Andyouare a thief."
"I am," said Hale, shamelessly. "I was driven to such courses because I wanted money. You may as well know the worst, for I----"
"Oh!" Lesbia threw up her hand, feeling sick at heart. "Don't tell me any more. Leave this house and never see me again."
Hale settled himself firmly in his chair. "I will do nothing of the sort," he declared; "this is my house, whatever Charvington may say. Here I am and here I rest. There's a French soldier's saying for you," he sneered.
"Oh," Lesbia sighed as she looked up, "will nothing make this man ashamed?"
"Nothing!" Hale put his legs up on another chair, "absolutely nothing."
At this moment there came a sharp ring of the front door bell. Hale started to his feet with an ejaculation, and Lesbia could guess that his shameless face had turned white in the shadowy twilight. Apparently he expected the police, as she gathered from his broken mutterings. "But it is impossible," he breathed, clenching his hands; "Charvington said that he would say nothing if the jewels were sent back. I shall send them to-morrow, and if there is a--ah!"
The two listening in the half-dark room heard Tim shuffle along the narrow passage and open the door. A moment later and Mrs. Walker's voice, cold and haughty, struck on their ears. Hale wiped his face and heaved a sigh of relief. "Don't betray me to that woman," he whispered.
"I shall not," said Lesbia, quietly, "after all, bad as you are, I cannot forget that you are my father."
Even as the last word dropped from her mouth, the door opened and Mrs. Walker was ushered into the room. Behind her came Tim bearing high a lamp to light her way. The radiance revealed Lesbia white and shrinking and the defiant face of Walter Hale.
"The masther, howly saints!" muttered Tim, setting down the lamp; then he addressed Lesbia, quietly: "Will I bring more lights, Miss, av ye plase?"
"No thank you, Tim, this lamp will be enough. Shut the door."
Without a single glance at his master, Tim departed and left the trio together. Mrs. Walker, standing just within the room, had said nothing. Only when the door was closed did she speak. "I did not expect to find you here, Mr. Hale," she said with contempt and scarcely concealed surprise.
"And where should I be, save in my own house?" he asked, lightly.
"In gaol," she snapped, "and there you would be, had I my way."
Hale raised his eyebrows. "I do not understand," he remarked, coolly.
"Yes, you do, and you will understand completely when I tell you that Lady Charvington came to see me to-day." Hale uttered an exclamation of rage and vexation. "Yes, you may well swear, for she told both George and myself about the robbery at The Court. What do you say to that, you detected scoundrel?" she asked, sternly.
"Hush!" he muttered, gruffly, "my daughter is present."
"I am glad she is, I want her to know what you are."
"I do know," faltered Lesbia, weakly, "and oh!"--she covered her face to sink in a passion of tears on the sofa--"it is shameful: shameful."
Mrs. Walker looked at Hale, still defiant and hard-faced. "I would have spared you this for the girl's sake," she breathed, "but she caught you red-handed, so there is nothing to conceal." With a stern look at him, she glided to the sofa and took the shrinking, fragile form of the unhappy girl in her strong arms: "Lesbia, my love," she said tenderly, and the change in her voice was extraordinary, "I have come to stand by you. That man is not fit to have charge of you. Come with me, to-night, to Medmenham."
"Oh no--no--George----"
"George knows all that you know, that I know. He was present when Lady Charvington came to tell us of what had taken place."
"And George despises me," wept Lesbia, burying her face in Mrs. Walker's bosom.
"Don't be ridiculous, child, don't be foolish. How can he despise you when you are innocent and he loves you?"
"Loves me--loves me," Lesbia looked up startled; "but he refused to renew our engagement although I abased myself to the dust to regain him."
"I think George will be able to explain why he acted in that way," she whispered. "In a few minutes you will meet George under the chestnut tree where he proposed to you. It's an idea of his that he should explain himself there and there renew the engagement. We both arranged to come here to-night and were to drive over. But at the last moment George took to his boat and is now rowing down the river to meet you under the trysting-tree. I drove over."
"Oh!" Lesbia sat up, smiles breaking through her tears. This was a gleam of sunshine indeed. "George is coming back."
"He will hold you in his arms very shortly," said Mrs. Walker, her hard face becoming strangely tender. "You poor dear child, how cruelly you have been treated. But the worst is over: you shall marry my George and be happy."
"Indeed," said Hale in an acrid, thin voice. "I am not to be consulted then?"
Mrs. Walker placed Lesbia tenderly back on the sofa and arranged the cushion. Then she turned, hard and harsh once more to the delinquent. "You are not to be consulted about Lesbia," she said calmly, "as you are unfit to have anything to do with her. But I have come to consult you about the amethyst cross."
"I know nothing about it," said Hale, starting and biting his nether lip.
"That's a lie," said Mrs. Walker fiercely. "Lady Charvington found the cross in her husband's library, where he had left it, and thinking that he had bought it for her, placed it in her jewel-case. As you stole the case you must have the cross. Give it to me at once. I want it."
"I know nothing about it," said Hale doggedly and raising his heavy eyes, "you are wrong--the cross was not with the jewels. I shall send them back to Lord Charvington to-morrow, as only by my restoring them will he agree not to prosecute. Charvington will show you the case, and you will see that there is no cross amongst them."
"I quite believe that," said Mrs. Walker, scornfully, "because you intend to keep it back. What use it is to you I can't say, as in no way can you obtain my sister's money."
Hale scowled and, stretching out his legs, slipped his hands into his pockets. He was perfectly dressed as usual in a cool tweed suit, and looked in the half light a very handsome and presentable man. No one would have taken him for a sordid thief. "I have not the cross," was all he could say, "it was not with the jewels. I don't know where it is."
"Lord Charvington----"
"If he had it in his library he must have robbed your cottage to get it, and also must have assaulted your son. I wonder you can stand that," said Hale with a sneer, "especially since you have a score against the man as it is. But then you are so forgiving."
"You will not find me so," said Mrs. Walker caustically. "As to Charvington, I believe he was more sinned against than sinning. I shall speak of that when we meet. As it is, my feelings towards him have relented so far as to permit my son to see him to-morrow."
"What!" asked Lesbia, who had sat quietly during this passage of arms, "is George going over to The Court?"
"Yes. Lord Charvington sent him a message asking him to call. What he wishes to see him about I cannot guess."
"I know: I know," cried the girl joyfully. "I told him about George and how George had lost his situation through a false accusation. Lord Charvington said that he would see George and get him something to do, so that we might marry."
"Oh that's it, is it?" said Mrs. Walker, smiling and smoothing the girl's hair.
"Will you let your son accept favours from Charvington?" asked Hale sneeringly, "from the man who----"
"That is quite enough," said Mrs. Walker, imperiously. "I will have an explanation with Lord Charvington. I believe from the bottom of my heart that you were the cause of all the trouble between us. But it strikes me," Mrs. Walker gathered her mantle round her and sat with folded arms like a grim and pitiless Fate, "that you are nearing the end, Mr. Walter Hale. Destiny has been kind to you so far: she will be kind no longer. I see," Mrs. Walker stared at Hale's twitching face; "I see imprisonment: I see death: I see----"
"Oh damn your Witch of Endor rubbish," shouted Hale, jumping to his feet with the perspiration beading his brow, for he was impressed by the absolute conviction with which she spoke. "You talk nonsense, infernal nonsense. And see here, you shall not interfere between my daughter and----"
"I will do as I please and so shall Lesbia," said Mrs. Walker, interrupting the vehement speech. "You forget that you are only at large because of Lord Charvington's refusal to prosecute. If you meddle with this marriage as you have done, he will lay you by the heels. Yes, you and your gang."
"My gang?" Hale swallowed something and laughed uneasily, "my gang?"
"You and Tait and Maud Ellis and Sargent and that miserable opium-smoking brother of his. You are all rogues and thieves and----"
"You can prove nothing of all this," interrupted Hale, now quite livid.
"George can," said Mrs. Walker nodding significantly. "He has seen the man Canning, whom you call The Shadow, although his real name is Arthur Sargent."
"Oh!" Lesbia rose quickly, "Has Mr. Canning seen George?"
"Yes, and he has told much which your precious father would like to be hidden," said Mrs. Walker quietly.
Hale laughed and wiped his brow. "All the same," he said, wetting his dry lips, "I am Lesbia's father after all. If you disgrace me, you disgrace her, so I am quite safe."
"That is right, hide behind a woman's petticoats," said Mrs. Walker bitterly, "it was always your custom. Now you come with me," she rose. "I have something to say to you and it must be said out of doors. Lesbia, go into the garden and see George."
"I'll come," said Hale promptly enough, "I am not afraid of arrest; I know too much. After you, madam," and he held the door open mockingly.
Ordinarily speaking Lesbia would have anxiously awaited the conclusion of Mrs. Walker's out-of-door interview with her father. But when she saw them stroll away in the moonlight, she suddenly remembered that George was waiting in the garden to explain. Probably the interview asked by Mrs. Walker had merely been an excuse to get Hale out of the way so that he might not interrupt the lovers' meeting, as he assuredly would do if left to his own marplot devices. Lesbia, therefore, saw that it was foolish to waste the golden hour, when it had been so propitiously brought about. Closing the front door, she ran rapidly along the passage into the garden and sped lightly down the grass-grown path. In another minute she was under the tree and in George's arms.
The night was lovely with moonlight and radiant with stars. In the neglected garden roses red and white and yellow breathed fragrance into the still, warm air of summer. There was not a breath of wind and the ripples on the broad river were only formed by the smoothly-flowing current. It murmured softly between the green banks and was an accompaniment to the occasional song of the nightingales, which spoke one to the other in the garden and across the river. At the dawn of love, the blackbird had fluted his song of joy, when the sky was blue and the sunshine was glorious. Now the sleeping world was bathed mysteriously in silver under a starry dome, and the nightingale sang a diviner song. Through much sorrow had they come to a better understanding of love, and the liquid notes of the immortal bird alone could interpret the nobler feelings which trouble had begotten. In George's arms lay Lesbia, safe at last in the haven of love, and the night sent upon them a benediction in the song of the bird.
"But you have been very, very cruel," said Lesbia softly. Woman-like she was the first to find her tongue.
"I might say the same of you, dear," whispered George, sitting down and gathering her closer in his arms, "but neither of us was cruel. Circumstances are to blame."
Lesbia, knowing that there was no period to the golden hour now that her father was out of the way, settled herself comfortably for a long talk. She had much to tell and much to ask, and before the rapture of love's silence could be renewed there was much to explain. "I know that I behaved very badly," she whispered penitently, "but I could not help it. Unless I had broken our engagement, my father told me that Maud Ellis would denounce you as a thief."
"I understand, dearest; but you did not believe that I was guilty?"
"No," Lesbia pressed her cheek against his, "of course I didn't: but if I had not been cruel I should not have been kind. I could not risk Maud's accusing you publicly. But perhaps," added the girl, hopefully, "she would not have done so, and I was weak to be so cajoled by her and by my father."
"I think you acted wisely," said George, after a pause. "Maud led me into a trap and certainly would not have let me out again until I agreed to marry her, or at least until you gave me up. You did so and she was content for the time being. She could part us, my sweet, but she could not make me false to you."
"I knew it, in spite of your cruel letter."
"It was as cruel as yours, Lesbia, so we can cry quits on that score. I know that you learned the truth through Canning. He explained to me, and spoke very gratefully of your kindness to him in his illness."
"How did you meet him, George?"
"He met me. That is, he wrote to me at Medmenham asking me to see him in the City as he had something important to tell me. We met in a Mecca."
"A Mecca?"
"One of those underground coffee-rooms in London City, dear. There Canning, or rather Sargent as he really is, explained."
"He told you who he was?"
"Yes! And he told me also that Tait was connected with a gang of thieves, two members of which had robbed Tait's strong-room with his connivance. Tait thus got the insurance money in addition to the jewels which he sold on the Continent. He made about forty thousand pounds over the deal and, after paying his accomplices, had enough left to avert a financial crisis, which was the reason for the robbery."
"Did you know then that my father was a thief?" asked Lesbia, shuddering.
"Of course not."
"I thought you did know, and for that reason had thrown me over."
"Lesbia," George said vehemently, and pressed her so strongly to his breast that she almost cried out with the delicious pain; "how can you think so meanly of me? Were you the daughter of a murderer I should marry you. It is you whom I love, my dearest, and not all the fathers and crimes in the world will ever separate us."
"Yet something parted us for a time."
"Your letter."
"That at first," acknowledged Lesbia, sighing at the memory of what she had been forced to write, "then yours. Oh, George, when I made it plain that Maud--the horrid girl--could do nothing, why didn't you come back to me?"
"Because Maud was too clever. Finding out that she could not accuse me, since Canning could prove my innocence, Maud played a bold game and told me that your father had robbed Tait's strong-room. She swore that if I did not write to you, as you had written to me, she would denounce Mr. Hale and have him put in prison. Lesbia," George suddenly slipped from the seat and knelt at the girl's feet holding her hands tightly, "what could I do in the circumstances but write as Maud dictated? I did not dare to let her bring this shame on you."
"But you could have explained your reason?"
"No, dear, no. Maud was too smart for that. She insisted that I should give no explanation, hoping that out of pique you would throw me over and marry Sargent as your father desired. He was in the plot also. I had to let things stand, as I was helpless; but I trusted that your heart would guess the truth. I was always true to you; I have always been. But you no doubt thought me false from that letter, as I thought you heartless from the way in which you wrote. Now I can see, you can see, that neither one of us is to blame. We were the sport of circumstances."
Lesbia bent and kissed his yellow hair. "I understand now," she said softly, "but, oh George, how could Maud Ellis or my father think that I would marry Captain Sargent, a mere apology for a man, and hardly that even?"
"They hoped to work on your feelings; to wear you out, my dear. But had you become engaged to that dandy scoundrel I should have stopped any possible marriage by denouncing Sargent as a member of Tait's gang."
"Is he, George?" asked Lesbia quickly, and she remembered what Mrs. Walker had said in the drawing-room.
"Yes! Canning--his brother, you know--did not tell me everything, but he revealed a great deal. Sargent is in society and poses as a man of good family living on his fortune. He is well-born, but he has no money save what he obtains by theft."
Lesbia shuddered, "How horrible; how sordid. And my father?" her voice sank.
"He is in the swim also, so are Maud Ellis and Tait. Indeed, I believe that Tait is the head of the whole infernal business. But that I knew your father was in with the lot and that I wished to spare you, I would have gone to the police at once."
"Oh!" Lesbia's tears dropped on her lover's hand, "how dreadful it all is."
George knelt before her and drew her head down on his shoulder. "There, there, dear!" he said, gently drying her eyes, "don't worry; we'll be married soon, and then you will be taken away from this terrible life."
"Tim also," murmured Lesbia tearfully, "I can't leave Tim behind."
"Of course he'll come too," said George cheerily, "I don't believe that he knew anything of the rascality that was going on."
"I think he did," said Lesbia doubtfully, "not that he is wicked himself. But he knew and, I believe, held his dear tongue for my sake."
"Tim would do anything for you, darling, in the same way as Canning would."
"Poor Mr. Canning--I mean Mr. Sargent."
"No, don't call him by his real name; he wishes to be known simply as Canning--The Shadow. He belongs to the gang and so does that Mrs. Petty who was set to watch you."
"A dreadful woman," said Lesbia, nestling, "how I disliked her. But I am sorry that Mr. Canning is wicked, George. He has been so kind."
"Kindness begets kindness," said Walker sententiously, "and I don't think Canning is so very wicked. He has been unlucky all his life and drifted from bad to worse until he took to smoking opium. That finished him, and he was on the streets when his brother--who always kept his head, in spite of his silly looks--took him up, and made him his servant. Canning does a lot of the dirty work of the gang, and did not denounce them as he would only be thrown again on the world. Also the gang would certainly do him harm if the fact of his betraying them became known."
"And it is known, George. I am sure of it; because Mr. Canning told me to mention his name to Maud Ellis. If she is a member of the gang, she must have told the rest about the betrayal."
"I daresay that is why Canning went into hiding," said George thoughtfully; "however, all we can do is to leave him to deal with the matter. For your sake I can say nothing since your father----"
"George," Lesbia sat up and placed her hands on his shoulders, as he knelt at her feet, "your mother told me that you were going to see Lord Charvington to-morrow."
Walker nodded. "It is true, though I don't know what he wishes to see me about. I don't know him; I never met him."
"I have met him, and I know him," said Lesbia eagerly, "and he is the kindest and best man in the world. He wants to help us, George, and to get you something to do so that we may marry. Now you must ask him to advance you money to go to Australia or Canada, and we can marry before we go. Then we can start a new life."
"I suggested something of that sort to my mother, but she was averse from leaving England. Still, she may change her mind."
"She must, and she can come also," said Lesbia vehemently. "Oh, George, don't you see that I cannot remain in England? Even if my father escapes this time, as he will, because Lord Charvington is so kind, he is sure to be found out some day. Then think of the disgrace. I should always be unhappy thinking of what might happen. No, George, if you love me, let us marry and place the ocean between this miserable old life and the happy new one which we are sure to have together. Say yes, dear George, say yes."
"I do, I do. I think your idea is excellent, and you must persuade my mother to act in this way. To-morrow I shall suggest our plan to Lord Charvington. I daresay he will give us enough to go away with and then I shall soon earn enough to pay him back. Yes, dear," George rose, looking tall and stalwart in the moonlight, "we shall begin a new life together and leave all this wickedness behind us."
Lesbia rose also and clung to her tall lover like an ivy to an oak. "I believe that everything will come right at last," she declared joyfully, "as Tim says it will. Only he added that the cross began it and the cross must end it, whatever that may mean."
George shook his head. "I can't explain the cross," he said doubtfully, "it is all very mysterious. Lord Charvington had it in his possession according to his wife. And yet I cannot think that Charvington would commit a burglary. He," George smiled broadly, "cannot possibly belong to the gang. However, it was stolen with the jewels, so your father----"
"He has not got it, George. He told your mother that he had not got it."
"Then either your father or Lady Charvington is telling a lie. However, I shall learn the truth when I see him to-morrow. And now, dear, you must go in, as it grows late."
"No," said Lesbia, petulantly. "I have to wait here until your mother comes to us. She went out to talk with my father. George," she added, after a pause, "I wonder what your mother knows about my father."
"Nothing very good, you may be certain," said Walker grimly. "She must know him as a very clever rogue. By the way, Lesbia, do you know how your father and Sargent escaped discovery when they robbed Tait's strong-room."
"Was Captain Sargent the other--thief?" said Lesbia, shivering at the horrible sound of the word.
"Yes. He and your father arranged with Tait. Maud knew of the arrangement and used it to inveigle me into a trap. Her chloroform business was all a fake, if you will forgive the slang. Tait gave the key and the two simply opened the strong-room and cleared with the jewels. When I pursued them they dodged into the wood round the house, and then entered the house again by a door which they had left open. Then, after putting away the jewels in Tait's own private room, they came down and joined the other guests in the search. Very clever of them, wasn't it, dear?"
"Oh, don't, don't!" cried Lesbia, catching his hand and looking white and wan. "It's so terrible to think that my own father should do this. Why have I such a father?" she asked, raising her eyes in despair to the moon. "What have I done to have such a father?"
"Hush, hush, dear," George pressed her to him. "Think no more of him. He is not worthy of you."
"He was never affectionate to me," sobbed Lesbia, whose nerves were quite unstrung, as might have been expected after what she had undergone. "We never understood each other. I was never drawn to him. Why, oh, why?"
George caught the hands she was wringing, firmly in his warm, kind clasp.
"My dearest, listen to me," he said softly. "You have been unhappy in the past, but you shall be happy in the future. Let your father fade out of your life, and come with me to the land of love. It is said that a woman shall forsake her parents and cling to her husband. So," said George, drawing himself up, "you are mine for ever, and when we are married it will be my delight to make you perfectly happy."
"Ah, yes, but the shadow of the past will ever remain. After all, he is my father. I can't do away with that," and she continued to sob.
The young man could only press her to his distressed heart and smooth her hair. After all, what could he say in the face of facts? Wicked and cold and hard and cruel as the man was, Hale undoubtedly was the girl's father, and nothing could do away with the painful fact. But for that relationship, George would have throttled Hale, or would have thrown him into the river; but as it was, he could do nothing. He could not even comfort his dear love who lay sobbing in his arms. The nightingale still sang on, the stars still twinkled like jewels and the moon still poured floods of white light down on the sleeping earth. But the magical glory of the scene was darkened to the lovers because of the evil of those around them. Yet--and Lesbia learned the lesson afterwards--out of sorrow comes joy and the way of love is the way of the cross. Something like this came into the young man's mind.
"Remember the motto of the amethyst cross," he whispered. "'Refuse and lose'; we cannot understand why we are so afflicted, but we must bear the cross if we are to win the crown. And after all, dear, you should be sorry as I am for your father. He is reaping much grief and pain for his sowing."
Lesbia sighed and placed her arms round George's neck. "Yes," she said in a weary manner, "the cross is heavy, but we must bear it. I am sure that in the end all will come right. Tim said so and so did Lord Charvington."
Down the pathway came Mrs. Walker, looking tall and stately and stern in her dark robes. Her face was set and white, and--strange in so hard a woman--she looked as though she had been weeping. "Lesbia," she said softly, "come back to the cottage and go to bed."
"But my father is there," sobbed the girl, "and you promised to take me to Medmenham."
"Your father has left the cottage for a time at least," said Mrs. Walker, gently disengaging the girl from her son's arms. "You will be alone with Tim and he will look after you, until we see how things turn out."
"How did you induce Mr. Hale to go, mother?" asked George, looking troubled.
"That is not for you to know at present," she said sternly. "I had an interview with him--a private interview," she added with emphasis, "and he saw that it was best to leave for a time. Rest in peace, my child," she said, kissing Lesbia's brow. "You are safe now, and can come to no harm. Be brave as you have been, for a little time longer, and all will end well."
"George," said Lesbia, stretching her arms like a a weary child.
"Dearest!" the young man kissed her and gave her into his mother's charge. So the two women passed into the cottage, while he watched them sadly.
Sorrow had not yet done her work.