Seth Dumbrick, sitting in the old cellar in which it seemed likely he would end his days, was the subject of Sally's anxious observance, as she sat opposite to him, busy with her needle. Sally, in addition to the performance of her household duties, played no unimportant part in providing for the domestic necessities of the establishment, and the seven or eight shillings a week she contrived by hard labour to earn was an important item to Seth, whose trade had fallen off considerably during the past few years.
Sally was a full-grown woman now, looking older than her years; but her nature was unchanged, and her devotion to the Duchess was as perfect as on the day when the girl was brought, almost an infant, to her mother's house. That was a happy time in her remembrance of it, far different from the present, which was full of trouble.
Seth Dumbrick's thoughts, to judge from his manner, were harassing and perplexing, and the cloud in his face was reflected on Sally's, as now and again she raised her eyes from her work to observe him. She knew the groove in which his thoughts were running; it was a familiar one to both of them, and they could not see a clear way through it. Any time during the last five or six years it would have been a safe venture to guess, when they were sitting together, as they were sitting now, that their thoughts were fixed upon the theme which now occupied their minds.
Silence had reigned in the cellar for fully half-an-hour, and even then it was not broken until Seth, rising from his seat, stood for a few moments before the fire, with his hands clasped at the back of his neck.
"There is but one way out of it, Sally," said Seth.
Sally instantly gave him her whole attention, and by a sharp glance indicated that all her wits were at his service.
"There is but one way out of it," he repeated, "and there's danger in that way. But it's a matter of duty, and it's got to be done. Supposing there was no duty in it, and no love, it's the only course, as it seems to me, left open to us."
He spoke slowly and with deliberation, as though, after long inward communing, he had settled upon a plan, and was determined to carry it out.
"It's now--ah, how many years ago is it, Sally, since you came into my cellar and fell into a trance?"
"I can't count 'em, Daddy. It seems a lifetime."
"Sixteen years it is. You were a little brown berry, then, with not an ounce of flesh on your bones, sharp as a needle, and with a mind ten times as old as your body." He bent over and kissed her, and tears glistened in her eyes. "And our Duchess was as like a bright angel in a dream as man's imagination can compass. I was a strong man then, a strong lonely man, with nothing much to look forward to, and with nothing outside my grisly self to love. Sixteen years ago it was. It seems a lifetime to you, you say, Sally. And it was only yesterday that I was a boy!"
He brushed the sentiment away with a light wave of his hand.
"As we grow older, Sally, things that were far apart come nearer; that is, when we get to a certain age--my age. Then the young days, that appeared so far away, begin to creep towards us, nearer and nearer, until the man of seventy and the boy of ten are very close together. With some old men, I don't doubt, it might be said that they die in their cradles. Is that beyond you, Sally?"
"A little, Daddy. I can't understand it; but you're right, of course,"
"Not to wander too far away," continued Seth, with a faint laugh, "it is sixteen years since you and the Duchess came to me, and that I undertook a responsibility. Keep a tight hold of that word, Sally; I'm coming back to it presently. You haven't much more flesh on your bones now than you had then, but you're grown pretty considerable, and you're a woman. Sally, if I had a son, I shouldn't mind your marrying him."
"Thank you, Daddy."
"But you can't marry a shadow; it wouldn't be satisfactory. Well, you're a woman grown up. I'm a man, growing down; my hair's nearly white, and that's the last colour, my girl. It seems to me that I'm pretty well as strong as I was; but I know that's a delusion. Nature has set lines, and the man that snaps his fingers at 'em, or disregards 'em, is a fool. And I'm not one, eh, Sally?"
He laughed faintly again; but there was a notable lack of heartiness in the small flashes of humour which occasionally lighted up his speech. It would have been more in accordance with his serious mood had they not been introduced; but habit is a master, not a servant.
"So much for you and me, Sally. There's another of more consequence than both of us--our Duchess. When I first set my eyes on her, I thought I'd never in all my life seen so beautiful a picture. We had plenty of happy days then; and we must never forget how much we owe her. We should have been a dull couple, you and me, without her. She was like light in our dark little room, and when I had troublesome thoughts about me, the sight of her was like the sun breaking through dark clouds. Do you remember, Sally, when she was ill, and you watched over her day and night?"
"You too, Daddy."
"I could do nothing; I had the bread to earn. Dr. Lyon said your nursing, not his medicine, pulled her through; and he was right. Do you remember our holiday in the country--the rides in the wagon, and the rambles by the sea-shore? What pleasure and happiness we enjoyed, Sally, was all through her. I can hardly think of her as anything but a child; but, as I've said, Nature has set her lines; and our Duchess is a woman--the brightest and most beautiful the world contains; and whether that beauty and brightness is going to be a curse or a blessing to her, time alone can tell."
"Not a curse, Daddy!" cried Sally, dropping her face in her hands. "No, no; not a curse!"
"God knows," said Seth, with his hand resting lightly on Sally's shoulder. "If you or me could do anything to make it a blessing we'd do it, if it brought upon us the hardest sacrifice that ever fell upon human beings. I say that of myself, and I know it of you. But I'm a man, with a wider experience than yours, and I can see further. Feeling is one thing, fact is another. To put feeling aside when we talk of our Duchess is out of the question; but let us see how far fact goes, and what it will lead us to." He looked down upon his garments with a curious smile; they were old and patched and patched again. Sally, with apprehension in her glance, followed his observance of himself. Then, with an expression of pity and reverence, he turned to Sally, and touched her frock, which was worn and faded. "Your only frock, Sally," he said.
"What of that?" she exclaimed, with a rebellious ring in her voice. "It's good enough for me."
"We've got to see this through," he returned, taking her hand in his, and patting it so gently that her head drooped before him. "You wouldn't fetch much at Rag Fair, my girl. All that belongs to you, on and off, would fetch, perhaps--three farthings. Now let us look at something else."
"Daddy, Daddy!" she cried, as she walked to the dark end of the cellar; "what are you going to do?"
He replied by dragging forward a trunk, which he placed between Sally and himself. It was locked, and he could not raise the lid. Taking from his pocket a large bunch of keys, he tried them until he found one that fitted the lock.
"I borrowed these keys of the locksmith round the corner," said Seth, as he opened the trunk; "I told him what sort of a trunk it was, and he said I'd be sure to find a key in this lot to fit it."
The trunk was filled with clothes. Before laying his hand upon them, Seth, with a steady look at Sally, said:
"I doubt, Sally, whether there's anybody in the world you know better than you know me."
"Thereisno one, Daddy."
"It has been a pleasure to me to believe that you love me."
"There's only one I love better than you, Daddy.'
"Our Duchess."
"Yes."
"But in addition to love, you have some other feeling with respect to me. Shall I try to put it in words?"
"If you please, Daddy."
"From what you know of me, you know I would not be guilty of a mean or dirty action. You know that I would sooner have my hands cut off than give anyone the power to say, 'Seth Dumbrick, you are a scoundrel and a sneak.'"
"I am certain of it, Daddy."
"Well, then. Don't you think anything like that of me because of what I'm doing now. Sally, I'm doing my duty. I'm doing what will perhaps save our Duchess from what both you and me are frightened to speak of to each other. If this man that she's keeping company with--this gentleman, as she's spoken of at odd times, when I've tried to coax her to confide in me--this gentleman that meets her secretly, and is ashamed or afraid to show his face to me that stands in the light of a father to the girl he's following--if this gentlemanisa gentleman (though his conduct don't say that much for him), and means fairly and honourably by our girl, then all's well. But I've got to satisfy myself of that. I should deserve the hardest things that could be said of me if I let our child walk blindly into a pit--if I, by holding back, assisted to make her beauty a curse instead of a blessing to her. Do you understand me?"
"I think I do."
"If," said Seth, with a tender animation in his voice, "this gentleman wants to marry her, and sets it down as a hard and fast consideration, that she should tear herself away from those who love her, and who have cared for her all these years--if he says to her, 'I am a gentleman, and when we are married you will be a lady; and as such you must never speak another word to the low people you've lived and associated with from a child;' if he says this to our Duchess, and we happen to know it, and that it's for her good it should be so, neither you nor me would step in her way. However sorry we should be, and lonely without her, we should say, 'Goodbye, Duchess, and God bless you! We'll never trouble you or your husband with a sight of our faces again.' Would that be in your mind as well as in mine, my girl?"
"Yes," replied Sally, with a sob.
"But we've got to make sure of that--and there's only one way to come to it, as our girl keeps her tongue still, and her thoughts shut from us. When I accepted the charge of her, I accepted a responsibility, and I'm not going to run away from it like a coward, because the proper carrying of it out will bring a sorrow to my heart that will remain there to my dying day. Do you think now I may look over what's in this trunk?"
"I am certain you'll do what's right, Daddy."
He gave her another tender glance, and proceeded to examine the trunk. It was filled with a girl's finery, of a better quality than that which belonged to a person in the Duchess's position of life. Lace collars and cuffs, feathers for hats, gloves, and underclothing of a fine texture. Sally's face grew paler as the articles were carefully lifted from the trunk by Seth, and placed upon the table.
"There are things here you've never seen before, Sally?"
Sally nodded, with lips compressed.
Seth took from the trunk a long soft package, containing a piece of bright blue silk, sufficient for a dress.
"Did she ever show you this?" asked Seth.
"No," said Sally, with trembling fingers on the silk. "How beautiful she will look in it!"
In a corner of the trunk was a small box made of cedar wood. Opening it, Seth took out various articles of jewelry, and gazed at them with sad eyes.
"These should be the belongings of a lady, Sally. Our girl is being prepared for the change. Is it to be one of joy or sorrow?"
At the bottom of the cedar-wood box was a small packet of letters addressed to the Duchess. Seth hesitated. The receipt of these letters had been hidden from him. They were addressed to the Duchess at a post-office a mile distant from Rosemary Lane. He debated within himself whether he had a right to read them. "If I were her father," he thought, "the right would be clearly mine. As it is, the right is mine. I am her guardian and protector."
He read them in silence; they were love letters, expressing the most passionate adoration for the Duchess, and filled with vows and promises enough to distract the mind of any girl in her position. Apart from the expressions of love they contained, there were other disturbing elements--such as the circumstance of the letters being written on paper bearing a crest with Latin words around it. Sally followed Seth's movements with wistful eagerness, but he did not enlighten her as to the contents of the letters. He returned them and the trinkets to the scented box, and replaced in the trunk with studied care all the articles he had taken from it. Then he locked and carried the trunk to the corner of the cellar again.
"It may be," he said, after a short contemplative pause, "that our Duchess has really attracted the love of a gentleman. Such things have occurred, produced by faces and figures less beautiful than those of our Duchess."
"Then the change will be one of joy!" cried Sally, with a brighter look.
"You know what that means, Sally. It means separation from us. You have a good memory, my girl?"
"Oh, yes."
"Carry your mind back to the holiday we had in the country. Do you think you can recall all that occurred in those few happy days?"
"Shall I try?"
"Yes--just run them over."
"Our packing up the night before; getting up early in the morning and meeting the wagon; trotting out of the dull streets into the beautiful country--I can hear the jingle of the bells on the horses' necks--the gardens, the lanes, the lovely flowers, and the waving corn; the names of the horses, Daisy and Cornflower--is that right, Daddy?"
"Go on, Sally. You have a capital memory."
"Our stopping at the public-house, and having dinner in the garden; our getting into the wagon again, with a lot of fresh hay to sit on; our trotting on and on till we came to another public-house, called The World's End--I thought it a strange name, and that we were really getting to the end of the world----"
"One moment, Sally. Before we came to The World's End, we saw a great park with splendid iron gates at the entrance. I asked what place it was----"
"And the wagoner said it was called Springfield."
"That's right, Sally; go on. What a memory you've got."
"Getting down at The World's End, and of its being quite early. Then you took us for a walk, and on the way we met a gipsy woman----"
Sally paused. She remembered perfectly well that the gipsy had predicted that a great trouble would fall upon her through her love for a woman younger than herself, more beautiful than herself, that she loved, and loved dearly; and that then the gipsy had said to the Duchess, "Show yourself, my beauty." Sally did not wish--for the reason that it might be of disadvantage to the Duchess--to recall these details to Seth, who might have forgotten them; as indeed he had, his mind being fixed on a particular point which Sally's memory had not yet reached; but not the less startling to her was the conviction that the gipsy's words were coming true.Comingtrue! Had they not been already verified by the altered relations between herself and the Duchess? It smote her keenly to reflect that for a long, long time past the Duchess had hidden from her knowledge the secret of a love which might tear them asunder for ever. But Sally was not prone to selfish musings; her generous nature was always ready to find excuses for the girl-friend to whom she had been sister and mother; and although her heart was aching sorely, and yearning for confidence and sympathy, she laid no blame on the cause of her sorrow. What more could she desire than that the Duchess should become a lady, and enjoy the life she sighed for? "I dare say," thought Sally, "that she will let me see her now and again, when no one is near to make her ashamed of me." To her own future Sally gave no thought; love of another kind had not yet stirred her soul with its enthralling influence.
"And while we were talking to the gipsy," said Seth, "a lady and gentleman came up to us."
"Yes, yes; I remember."
"Do you remember what kind of a gentleman?"
"I didn't like him, Daddy."
"Nor I. Now as to his name."
Sally pondered, but could not call it to mind.
"If I mention it, you will know, perhaps. Was it Temple?"
"Yes, oh, yes; I remember now."
"Sally, would you like to know who has written all those letters to our girl, and who is her gentleman lover?"
"Of course I should, Daddy."
"His name is Arthur Temple."
"Not the Mr. Temple we met in the country!" exclaimed Sally, clasping her hands in a kind of despair. "He must be an old man by this time."
Seth could not help smiling sympathetically. This dismay at the thought of an old lover for their Duchess was very intelligible to him.
"No, it cannot certainly be that Mr. Temple. But it would be a strange thing if Arthur Temple should turn out to be his son. However, that has to be discovered. Sally, I have made up my mind what to do; and you may depend that it will be for the good of the Duchess."
"You mustn't interfere with her, Daddy. She won't put up with it."
"She will not know what I am about; what I do shall be done secretly. It is my duty not to allow this to go on any further without an understanding of some sort. To arrive at this I must set a watch upon her."
"Oh, Daddy if she should see you!"
"She shall not see me; I will take care of that. Sally, another thing has to be done; we're to enter into a compact. Not a word of all this to the Duchess."
"I'll be as mum as a mouse."
"And if things turn out right for the Duchess, we must twist our minds into thinking that they have turned out right for us. It will be dull here without her, but if the love of an old man can make it brighter for you, Sally----"
A little choking in his voice compelled him to pause, and turn his head. The contemplation of this change in his life, now that he was an old man and worse off in a worldly way than he ever remembered himself to be, brought deep sadness upon him. All the dreams he had indulged in of a bright future for the Duchess, some warmth from which would shine upon herself, had faded quite away. But warmth and light came to him from another quarter. A thin arm stole around his neck, and a dark, loving face was pressed close to his. He drew the grateful woman on his knee, and the few minutes of silence which ensued were not the unhappiest that had been passed in the dingy old cellar.
"And now, Sally," he said, kissing her, "what we've got to do is our duty--straight, my girl, as we can do it--and to hope for the best."
The evening following this conversation, Seth Dumbrick, going out while the Duchess was still at home, watched for her at the corner of a convenient street, and when she appeared, followed her so as not to be observed. It was a fine dry evening, and the Duchess walked swiftly towards the west of London. At the Mansion House she entered an omnibus, and Seth climbed to the top. She alighted at Charing Cross, and tripped over to Trafalgar Square, where she was immediately greeted by a man whose face Seth, being compelled to keep at a safe distance, could not distinguish. There was no difficulty in following the pair; and it needed only ordinary caution to prevent being detected. The Duchess and her companion walked onwards through the Haymarket to Regent Street, pausing frequently at shop-windows, and once they entered a café, Seth waiting for them in the street. Resuming their walk they strolled to Oxford Street, and then turned back towards the Strand. It was half-past seven by the time they reached that wonderful thoroughfare, down which they strolled, until they came to the door of the Strand Theatre. This they entered, and were lost to Seth's sight. Noticing which way they turned, he followed, and asked the price of admission. A gentleman in a white tie, who was standing by the small window where the money was taken, loftily informed Seth that the pit and gallery were round the corner.
"But," said Seth, "I want to go where the lady and gentleman who have just passed through have gone."
"To the stalls?" inquired the gentleman in the white tie, in a tone of surprise.
"Yes, to the stalls," replied Seth.
"Can't admit you," was the rejoinder.
"Why?"
"Not dressed."
Seth glanced at his common clothes, and with a slight shrug and a little ironical smile, pardonable under the circumstances, took the indicated direction to the pit and gallery. He paid for admission to the pit, and, soon after he entered, succeeded in discovering where the Duchess was seated. She was in the stalls with her companion, and their backs were towards him. When Seth entered the pit, he found it very full, and he could only obtain standing room; necessarily, therefore, his discovery of the Duchess was made with some difficulty, and from where he stood it was impossible for him to observe her closely. Indeed, from the surging of the audience, and the goings to and fro, she was often not visible to him. He had no heart for the performance, which caused a running fire of laughter and merriment in all parts of the theatre, and before its termination he left the place, afraid lest in the last crush he should miss the Duchess. He lingered patiently in the Strand, near the box entrance of the theatre, until the people came out, and was successful in catching sight of the Duchess and her companion, whose evening dress was covered by a light overcoat. When they had disengaged themselves from the throng, they paused, and from the opposite side of the street Seth noted that a discussion was taking place between them, the man persuading, the Duchess refusing. At length the Duchess cut short the disputed point by running away from her companion with a light laugh. He hastened immediately after her, and arm-in-arm they wended their way to Rosemary Lane, followed warily by Seth. There they parted, after more than one kiss, which caused Seth to knit his brows ominously. When he was alone, the man took from his pocket a cigar case, which, notwithstanding the distance that separated them, Seth observed was made of silver. Lighting a cigar, the Duchess's lover strolled leisurely along until he came to a cab-rank, whence he hailed a cab. This was what Seth feared. Quickly hailing another, he gave the driver instructions to follow, without laying himself open to observation, promising extra payment if this were done. His cab pulled up in one of the most fashionable quarters of the west of London. As he was paying the fare, he asked the driver the name of the street, and saw his girl's lover walk on a few yards, and pause at a great house, which he presently entered. Then Seth walked up the steps, and noted the number.
His labours for that night were almost at an end; there was still a small matter to be attended to. He waited until he heard the policeman's measured footfall, and falling in by his side in a natural manner, struck up a conversation. He did not find it difficult, being in some respects a shrewd actor in the busy world, to ingratiate himself into the good graces of the official It was a cold night, and he proposed a friendly glass, The policeman, who knew an honest man when he came across one, and who was generally luckier than Diogenes, affably entertained the proposition. Over the friendly glass the conversation was continued, and sufficiently mellowed, the policeman took possession of his beat again, accompanied by Seth. They passed the house which the Duchess's lover had entered. Seth had artfully directed the conversation into the desired channel, and as they passed the house, he asked:
"Who lives there? A great man, I should say."
"You'd say right," replied the policeman. "That's Mr. Temple's house."
"Hasn't he an estate in the country, called Springfield? I was in that quarter some time since, and I heard it belonged to the great Mr. Temple."
"I've heard as much myself. Yes, Springfield's the name of his country seat, now you mention it. I wish I was as well off as him."
"I wish so, too," said Seth Dumbrick, as he walked away. "Goodnight."
It happened that, during the week in which these occurrences took place, Mr. Temple was absent from London. On the night of his return he was more than usually elated. Everything was prospering with him. Arthur's ingenuous manner found favour wherever he appeared, and his introduction into society promised the most favourable results. In addition to this cause for satisfaction, Mr. Temple had reason to believe that his public services were likely, nay, almost certain, to be rewarded with a title, which his son would bear after him.
"There is practically no limit to our fortunes, my boy," he said to Arthur; "the current will carry us on."
To which Arthur replied:
"I trust I shall not disappoint you, sir."
"I am satisfied as to that," said Mr. Temple. "My chief desire now is that you should choose a definite career. I do not wish to press you, but the sooner you enter public life the wider will be your experience and the greater your chances. Our name shall be a famous one in the country."
On his return to his town house, Mr. Temple, after a few minutes' conversation with his wife, proceeded to the library. He had been expected home the previous evening, and his correspondence for two days lay upon his writing-table. He looked over the letters hurriedly, and paused at one which seemed to give him uneasiness. It was brief and to the point.
"The writer of these lines, Seth Dumbrick by name, wishes for a personal interview with Mr. Temple, on a matter of vital importance to himself and the gentleman he addresses. He will call on Mr. Temple at eight o'clock this evening, and hopes not to be denied."
Mr. Temple glanced at the clock. It was a quarter-past eight. He struck a bell, and a servant entered.
"Is any person waiting to see me?"
"Yes, sir; he is in the hall."
"Giving any name?"
"Dumbrick, sir."
"Did he come yesterday?"
"Yes, sir, and was informed you would not return till to-night."
"What sort of a person?"
"A common person, sir--a very common person."
"Show him in."
The next moment Seth Dumbrick entered, hat in hand, and stood near the door. From his seat at the table, Mr. Temple desired him to come near. Seth Dumbrick obeyed, and the men faced each other.
"You are the writer of this note," said Mr. Temple haughtily.
"I am, sir."
"Explain it, and briefly. Stay--have I not seen your face somewhere?"
Seth Dumbrick made no immediate reply. He had no desire to recall to Mr. Temple's memory the circumstances of the unpleasant interview that had taken place between them many years ago. He himself had recognised Mr. Temple the moment he entered the room, his cause for remembrance being the stronger of the two. Mr. Temple had an unerring memory for faces, but his meeting with Seth Dumbrick lay so far in the past, and his life was so varied and full of colour, that he could not for the moment connect the face with the circumstance.
"Answer me," he said peremptorily. "Have I not seen you before?"
"You have, sir."
"Where?"
"Years ago--at Springfield--when I, with two children, was taking a holiday in the country."
"Ah, I remember perfectly. Our meeting was not a pleasant one."
"It was not my fault that it was not so."
"I remember also that you gave me the address of an inn at which you were stopping, and that I informed you I should call there. Ididcall, and you had gone. You ran away, I presume."
"I followed my course, being a free man, and not bound to wait for strangers."
"It is a matter of no importance. Two children! Yes; I should know them again, I think. One, a child, with a very beautiful face. Is she living?"
"She is, sir; as a woman, though she is scarcely yet out of her girlhood, she is more beautiful than she was as a child. I am here on her behalf."
"On her behalf!" exclaimed Mr. Temple, taking the note from the table. "You use the words 'vital importance.'"
"They are correctly used, as you will perhaps admit when you hear me."
"I will hear you. Of vital importance to yourself and to me?"
"That is so, sir."
Mr. Temple considered for a moment. His career had been one which necessitated rapid conclusions.
"Write your name, trade, and address on this paper."
Seth Dumbrick did as he was desired. His manner was closely watched by Mr. Temple, who expected to detect a reluctance to give the information. But Seth Dumbrick wrote unhesitatingly, and with decision.
"This is your true name and address?"
"I have no other. I am here to speak the truth."
"Say what you have to say."
"I must trespass upon your patience, but I will be as brief as it is possible for me to be. It is very many years ago--I cannot recall how many; the age of the child, if it can be ascertained, will verify that--that a little girl was strangely and mysteriously brought into my neighbourhood by a man whom I never saw, and who remained in Rosemary Lane for probably not longer than a couple of hours. This stranger took a room in the house of acquaintances of mine----"
"Write on the paper, beneath your own name, the name of these acquaintances."
Seth Dumbrick wrote the name of Chester, which Mr. Temple did not glance at. He was more engaged in observing the manner in which the man before him submitted to the tests he demanded. Seth continued:
"The stranger took a room that was to let in the house, and paid, I believe, two weeks' rent in advance. The night that he took the room he disappeared from the neighbourhood, and was never more seen in it."
"Leaving the child?"
"Leaving the child. Not long after the occurrence the persons who occupied the house fell into misfortune, and the woman into whose care the child had been strangely thrown was compelled by circumstances to give up her house, and take a situation in the country."
"All this bears upon your errand to me?"
"Every word of it. The woman had a little girl of her own, a few years older than the foundling, who contracted an absorbing love for the deserted stranger. It is not necessary to relate how I, upon the breaking up of the woman's home, took upon myself the care of her child and the child whom the villain--that is the correct word, in my opinion--deserted. These children have lived with me ever since, and under my care have grown to womanhood."
The talent Seth Dumbrick exhibited for condensation and clearness had its effect upon Mr. Temple, who knew how to appreciate the rare faculty.
The child you have referred to for her beauty is the child who was deserted. Nothing is known of her parentage or belongings. She has grown up amongst us, and is loved by all. To me, a childless man, she is as my own daughter, and I could not feel more deeply for her were she of my own blood. But it was a matter of remark from the first, and has continued so, that, from all appearance, she is superior in certain ways to those whom a strange fate has condemned her to herd with. You see, sir, that I do not rate myself and those of my order too highly. I have given her what education it was in my power to bestow. She is in all respects a lady, and as beautiful a girl as this city contains. As is natural, so bright a being has attracted the attention of those in my station of life--I do not say in hers--who desire matrimony. But she has consistently declined to entertain their proposals, and has, so to speak, set her head above them--as she has done from the first, in every possible way. Whether this comes from her parents, who, for the credit of human nature, I hope are dead, it is beyond me to say. There are mysteries which we weak mortals are powerless to probe. I come now, sir, to that part of my story which most nearly touches the object of my visit to you.
"Before you proceed, favour me with the name of this child."
"I must ask you to receive it in all seriousness, sir. I am afraid that I am principally to blame for it, but it sprung out of a whimsical fancy, and in one of those moments of extravagance for which we are scarcely accountable. The child had no name; the villain who brought her into the neighbourhood, and deserted her, left none behind him; and in such a moment as I have spoken of, the name--if it can be called so--of the Duchess of Rosemary Lane was given her. It was undoubtedly wrong, but it has clung to her, and she bears no other."
"Go on now to the immediate purport of your note to me."
"As I have said, she has attracted the attention of many suitors in my station of life, but she has turned a deaf ear to all. She has attracted other attention--the attention of a gentleman moving presumably, nay certainly, in a higher position in society than that she occupies. Have you no suspicion of the point I am coming to?"
"None."
"The person I speak of," proceeded Seth, with a heavy sigh, "meets my child regularly, and has given her such gifts as only a gentleman could afford to give."
"An old story," interrupted Mr. Temple.
"Continue to hear me patiently, sir. I have but little more to say. This gentleman writes constantly to her, but not to the home in which she has lived from childhood. I am here to ask you whether it is possible that such an intimacy will result in a manner honourable to the girl whom I, an old and childless man, love with all the earnestness and devotion of which I am capable--for whose happiness I would lay down my life as surely as every word I have spoken to you is the honest and straightforward truth."
"And it is to this point you must come at once," said Mr. Temple, whose tone would have been arrogant but for the effect which the genuine pathos of his visitor produced upon him against his will. "What interest can I have in the name of this gentleman, who, seeing a pretty girl who is flattered by his attentions, follows her, and falls into the trap she lays for him----"
But if his speech had not trailed off here, it would have been arrested by Seth's indignant protest.
"Stop!" he cried, in a ringing voice. "Hear first the name of the man who is wooing my child, and who from your own sentiments--for nature transmits good and evil qualities from father to son--is seeking to entrap an innocent girl!"
At this moment these two men--the one so high in the world, the other so low--changed positions. It was Mr. Temple who cowered, and Seth Dumbrick who raised his head to the light.
"Speak the name then," said Mr. Temple.
"Your son--Arthur Temple!"
A cold smile served at once to hide Mr. Temple's agitation and to outwardly denote the value he wished Seth Dumbrick to believe he placed upon his statement.
"And you," he said, with contemptuous emphasis, "have connived at this intimacy, and have come to me to place a price upon----"
Again he was interrupted indignantly by Seth.
"You mistake. I have never, so that I could recognise it, seen the face of your son; I have had no conversation with my child upon the subject, and she does not know of my visit to you. She has not confided in me."
"How then do you happen to be aware of the particulars you have narrated so fluently? How have you gained the knowledge of the letters and the gifts?"
"Having only the good of my child at heart, and being better versed in the villainies----"
"Be careful of your words."
"If your son has no honourable intention towards my girl, the word is in its proper place. Being better versed in the ways of the world than she, a young and inexperienced child, can possibly be, I exercised my rightful authority, and searched her trunk, to discover what she was concealing from me. I found the tokens there. The letters are written on paper stamped with a crest, surrounded by Latin words which I do not understand."
Mr. Temple, in silence, handed Seth a sheet of notepaper.
"The crest and words," said Seth, putting on his spectacles to examine them, "are the same as these."
"Is that all you have to say?"
"All--with the exception that three nights ago I witnessed the meeting between your son and my child."
"How did you discover where he lives?"
"I followed him to this house, and learnt that it was yours."
"You would have made a good detective, my man."
"What I have done," said Seth simply, "has been prompted and guided by love."
Mr. Temple, shading his face with his hand, was silent a little. He could not doubt the truth of Seth's statement, and his desire was to save his san from awkward consequences which might result from his imprudence. He raised his eyes, and said, in a hard tone:
"Your price?"
Seth Dumbrick stared at Mr. Temple, and his frame shook with agitation.
"Your price," repeated Mr. Temple, "for those letters?"
"Are you asking me," said Seth, resting his hand heavily on the table to obtain some control over his words, "to put a price upon my child's honour?"
"I will have no insolent construction placed upon my question. You have heard it. Answer it."
"It should have blistered your tongue," said Seth, with bitter emphasis, "to utter it. Is that answer sufficient?"
"Quite," replied Mr. Temple, striking the bell with a fierceness he would have shown had it been human and his enemy. A servant entered.
"Turn this person from the house," he said sternly.
The servant stood before Seth Dumbrick, who knew that there was no appeal. But before he took his departure, he said sternly:
"If Divine justice be not a delusion, you will live to repent this night. Into your home may come the desolation you would assist in bringing into mine."
He had time to say no more' for at a peremptory gesture from Mr. Temple, the servant forced him from the room.
Mr. Temple instantly touched the bell again, and another servant entered.
"Is Richards in?"
"Yes, sir."
"Send him to me immediately."
Almost on the instant, Richards made his appearance. A man of the same age as his master, tall and spare, with a manner so habitually watchful that, although he seldom looked a person in the face, not a movement or expression escaped his notice.
"A man is now being shown out of the house," said Mr. Temple hurriedly, "whom you will follow to his home. Lose not a moment. Ascertain every particular relating to himself, his life, and his domestic history. You understand?"
Richards nodded. He was a man not given to the wasting of speech.
"This is a secret and confidential service," said Mr. Temple. "Breathe not a word concerning it to a soul but myself--understand, not to a soul but myself--not even to my son. Hasten now, or you may miss him."