At five o'clock in the evening Robert Grantham and Rathbeal joined John Dixon in his rooms in Craven Street. The revelation which Rathbeal had made to Grantham had produced a marked change in him. With wonder and incredulity had he listened at first to the strange story, but his friend's impressive earnestness had gradually convinced him that it was no fable which Rathbeal was relating. The first force of his emotions spent, hope, humility, and thankfulness were expressed in his face. It seemed to him that the meeting between him and his wife, which Rathbeal had promised should take place that night, was like the meeting of two spirits that had been wandering for ages in darkness. It was not without fear that he looked forward to it. The sense of the wrong he had inflicted upon the woman he had vowed to cherish and protect was as strong within him now as it had been through all these years, from the day upon which he heard that she was dead. Would she accept his assurance that he had not been false to her, would she believe in his repentance, would she forgive him?
"I ask but that," he said to Rathbeal, "and then I shall be content to go my way, and spend the rest of my life in the task of self-purification."
"Hope for something better," Rathbeal replied: "for a reunion of hearts, for a good woman's full forgiveness, and forgetfulness of the errors of the past. The clouds have not lifted only to deceive. There is a bright future before you, my friend."
"My future is in God's hands," said Grantham.
"He will direct your wife aright. Hope and believe."
In this spirit they wended their way to John Dixon's rooms.
Grantham and he had not met since they left school, but he received his old schoolfellow as though there had been no break in their early association. They shook hands warmly, and the look that passed between Rathbeal and John Dixon told the latter that the truth had been revealed to the wronged man. They wasted no time in idle conversation, but started immediately on their journey.
For a reason which he did not divulge to his companions, John Dixon had elected to drive to Mr. Fox-Cordery's summer residence; he had a vague idea that occasion might arise to render it necessary that he should run off with Charlotte that very night; if so, there was a carriage, with a pair of smart horses, at his command. The coachman he had engaged had received his instructions, and when they got out of the tangle of the crowded thoroughfares the horses galloped freely along the road. While they proceed upon their way some information must be given of Martha's movements.
She had rushed from her sister's room in a state of delirium. Her privations and sufferings, and the conflicting emotions which tortured her, had destroyed her mental balance, and she was not responsible for her actions. She had no settled notion where she was going; the only motive by which she was guided was her desire to escape from her fellow-creatures. Instinctively she chose the least frequented roads, and she stumbled blindly on till she was out of London streets. She had no food, and no money to purchase it, but she scarcely felt her hunger. One dominant idea possessed her--under the floating clouds and with silence all around her, she heard the drip of water. It pierced the air, it made itself felt as well as heard. Drip, drip, drip! The sound wooed her on toward the valley of the Thames, and unconsciously she pursued a route which had been familiar to her in her girlhood's days. She walked all that night, and through the whole of the following day, compelled to stop now and again for rest, but doing so always when there was a danger of her being accosted by persons who approached her from an opposite direction. Rathbeal, had he been acquainted with her movements, would have answered the question whether it was chance or fate that took her in the direction of Mr. Fox-Cordery's house. When night came on again she was wandering along the banks of the Thames, within a short distance of the man who had wrecked her life. She knew that she had reached her haven, and she only waited for the moment to put her desperate resolve into execution. The water looked so peaceful and shining! The tide silently lapped the shore, but she heard the drip, drip, drip of the water. Death held out its arms to her, and invited her to its embrace. It was a starlight night, but she saw no stars in heaven. The moon sailed on, but she saw no light. "I shall soon be at rest." That was her thought, if it can be said that she thought at all.
The occupants of a carriage, drawn by a pair of smart horses, saw the figure of a woman moving slowly on toward the little rustic bridge which stretched from Mr. Fox-Cordery's lawn to the opposite bank. They took no notice of her, being entirely occupied with the important mission upon which they were engaged. They had remarked that it was fortunate the night was so fine. Could they have heard the sound that sounded like a death-knell in Martha's ears, they might have changed their minds, and recognized that no night could be fine which bore so despairing a message to a mortal's ears. Drip, drip, drip! "I am coming," whispered Martha to her soul. "I am coming. The water is deep beneath that bridge!"
At nine o'clock Robert Grantham and his companions reached their destination. The coachman drew up at an inn, and the men alighted.
"Now," said John Dixon, as they strolled toward Mr. Fox-Cordery's house, "we must be guided by Charlotte's instructions. The night is so clear that we shall be able to see each other from a distance. You must not be in sight when Charlotte comes; I must explain matters to her. The bank by that bridge stands high. Go there and remain till you hear from me. Before I enter the house I shall have a word to say as to the method of our proceedings. Someone is coming toward us. Yes, it is Charlotte. Go at once, and keep wide of her."
They obeyed, and walked toward the bridge. Martha was on the opposite side, and perceiving men approaching, she crouched down and waited.
"John," said Charlotte, in a low, clear voice.
"Charlotte!"
Only a moment for a loving embrace, and then they began to converse. What they said to each other did not occupy many minutes. John Dixon left her standing alone, and went to his friends.
"I am going to the house," he said, "and am to speak to Mrs. Grantham"--how Robert trembled at the utterance of the name!--"in her room. That is her window; there is a light in the room. If I come to the window and wave a white handkerchief, follow me into the house without question. Allow no one to stop you. I do not know how long I may be there, but I will bring matters to an issue as soon as possible."
They nodded compliance, and Robert Grantham breathed a prayer. Then John Dixon rejoined Charlotte, and they entered the house.
Martha, crouching by the bridge, heard nothing of this. All she heard was the drip of water; all she saw were the dark shadows of men on the opposite side. They would soon be gone, and then, and then----
Mr. Fox-Cordery and his mother, being closeted together, were not aware of the entrance of John Dixon. Unobstructed he ascended the stairs to the first floor, and was conducted to the presence of Mrs. Grantham.
What she had to disclose to him, and what he had to disclose to her, is already known to the reader. She told her story first, and John Dixon said that, from his knowledge of Mr. Fox-Cordery, he was more than inclined to believe that her agent had been false to his trust. He informed her that he had gained an insight into her affairs during the time he had served Mr. Fox-Cordery, and that their disagreement had arisen partly from a remonstrance he had made as to his employer's management of certain speculations.
"My impression was then," said John Dixon, "that Mr. Fox-Cordery was exceeding his powers, and that in case of a loss he could be made responsible for it."
"God bless you for those words!" exclaimed Mrs. Grantham. "The thought of being forced into marriage with him makes me shudder. But what can I do? To see my child in want of food would break my heart."
"There is no question of a marriage with him," said John Dixon gravely; his own task was approaching. "It is impossible. I will tell you why presently, Mrs. Grantham. You will need all your strength. It is not on your affairs alone that I am here to-night. Before I say what I am come to say, let us finish with Mr. Fox-Cordery. I am a partner in a respectable firm of solicitors, and my advice is that you place your business affairs in our hands. We shall demand papers, and a strict investigation; and I think I can promise you that we shall be able to save something substantial for you. Are you agreeable to this course?"
"Yes, dear friend, yes."
"Then I understand from this moment I am empowered to act for you?"
"It is so," she replied, and thanked Heaven for having sent her this friend and comforter.
"Thank Charlotte also," he said.
Then he began to speak of the important branch of his visit to her. Delicately and gently he led up to it; with the tenderness of a true and tender-hearted man he brought the solemn truth before her. With dilating eyes and throbbing breast she listened to the wonderful revelation, and to the description of the life her husband had led since he had received the false news of her death. Much of this he had learned from Rathbeal, who had armed him with the truth; and as he went on the scales fell from her eyes, and she saw with the eyes of her heart the man she had loved, weak, erring, and misguided, but now truly repentant and reformed, and not the guilty being she had been led by Mr. Fox-Cordery to believe he was. She had no thought for the wretch who had worked out his infamous design; she thought only that Robert was true to her, and that her dear child was not fatherless. John Dixon gave her time for this to sink into her mind, and then told her that her husband had accompanied him, and was waiting outside for the signal of joy.
"I will go to him! I will go to him!" she cried.
But John Dixon restrained her.
"Let him come into the house," he said. "Let your enemy know that he is here, and that his schemes are foiled. Remember, I am your adviser. Be guided by me."'
Trembling in every limb, she went to the window and opened it.
"Shall I give him the signal?" asked John Dixon.
"No; I will do it," she replied, and, reaching forth, waved the white flag of love and forgiveness.
Robert Grantham, his eyes fixed in painful anxiety upon the window, was the first to see the signal. With a gasp of joy he started for the house, and Rathbeal, whose attention just then had been diverted by the figure of Martha crouching by the bridge, hearing his footsteps, turned to follow him. At the moment of his doing so, Martha, seeing them walk away, crept on to the bridge and leaned over. Suddenly she straightened herself, and raising her arms aloft, whispered softly, "I'm coming--I'm coming!" and let herself fall into the water. The heavy splash, accompanied by a muffled scream, reached Rathbeal's ears before he had proceeded twenty yards. Turning to the bridge, and missing the figure of the crouching woman, he instinctively divined what had happened.
"Don't stop for me," he cried hurriedly to Grantham. "I'll follow you."
Then he ran back to the bridge.
Robert Grantham did not hear him, so absorbed was he in the supreme moment that was approaching. Had a storm burst upon him, he would scarcely have been conscious of it. Who was that standing at the window, waving the handkerchief! It was not John Dixon. His eyes were dim, his heart palpitated violently, as he fancied he recognized the form of his wife. If it were so, indeed his hope was answered. He was met at the door by Charlotte, who led him to the room above. Standing upon the threshold he saw his wife looking with wistful yearning toward him--toward her husband who, after these long years, had come to her, as it were, from the grave. They were spellbound for a few moments, incapable of speech or motion, each gazing upon the other for a sign.
John Dixon stepped noiselessly to Charlotte's side, and the lovers left the room hand in hand, closing the door gently behind them.
Husband and wife, so strangely reunited, were alone.
She was the first to move. Bending forward, she held out her arms, and her eyes shone with ineffable love; with a sob he advanced, and fell upon his knees before her. Sinking into a chair, she drew his head to her breast and folded her arms around him.
Let the veil fall upon those sacred minutes. Aching hearts were eased, faith was restored, and Love shed its holy light upon Lucy and Robert.
"Our child!" he whispered. "Our Clair!"
"I will take you to her," she said, and led him to the bed where Clair was sleeping.
Meanwhile Rathbeal, hastening to the bridge, saw his suspicions confirmed by the death-bubbles rising to the surface of the water. With the energy and rapidity of a young man, he tore off his coat and waistcoat, and plunged into the river. He was a grand swimmer, and he did not lose his self-possession. He had eyes in his hands and fingers, and when, after some time had elapsed, he grasped a woman's hair, he struck out for the bank, and reaching it in safety, drew the woman after him. She lay inanimate upon the bank, and, clearing his eyes of the water, he knelt down to ascertain if he had rescued her in time to save her. He put his ear to her heart, his mouth to her mouth, but she gave no sign of life. The moon, which had been hidden behind a cloud, now sailed forth into the clearer space of heaven, and its beams illumined the woman's face.
"It is Martha!" he cried, and without a moment's hesitation he caught her up in his arms and ran with her to the house.
Mr. Fox-Cordery, closeted with his mother in a room on the ground floor, heard sounds upon the stairs which had a disturbing effect upon him. The sounds were those of strange footsteps and whispering voices. Opening the door quickly he saw, by the light of the hall-lamp, John Dixon and Charlotte coming down--John with his arm round Charlotte's waist, she inclining tenderly toward the man she loved.
"You here!" cried Mr. Fox-Cordery.
"You behold no spirit," replied John Dixon, releasing Charlotte, and placing her behind him; "I am honest flesh and blood."
Mr. Fox-Cordery, his mother now by his side, looked from John Dixon to Charlotte with a spiteful venom in his eyes which found vent in his voice.
"You drab!" he cried. "You low-minded hussy! And you, you sneak and rogue! Have you conspired to rob the house? I'll have the law of you; you shall stand in the dock together. Curse the pair of you!"
"Easy, easy," said John Dixon, calm and composed. "Don't talk so freely of law and docks. And don't forget that curses come home to roost."
Other sounds from the first floor distracted Mr. Fox-Cordery.
"Is there a gang of you here? Whose steps are those above? Mother, alarm the house. Call up the servants, and send for the police."
"Aye, do," said John Dixon, as Mrs. Fox-Cordery pulled the bell with violence, "and let them see and hear what you shall see and hear. Don't be frightened, Charlotte. The truth must out now."
Mr. Fox-Cordery's pallid lips quivered, and he started back with a smothered shriek. Robert Grantham and his wife appeared at the top of the stairs, and as they slowly descended he retreated step by step, and seized his mother's arm.
"Be quiet, can't you?" he hissed. "Go and send the servants away. We do not want them. Say it was a mistake--a false alarm--anything--but keep them in their rooms!"
Retribution stared him in the face. The edifice he had built up with so much care had toppled over, and he was entangled in the ruins. It was well for them that he had no weapon in his hands, for coward as he was, his frenzy would have impelled him to use it upon them.
"I am here," said John Dixon, "by the permission you gave to Mrs. Grantham, and I am armed with authority to act for her. You see, I have not come alone."
"You devil! you devil!" muttered Mr. Fox-Cordery, through the foam that gathered about his mouth.
"Say nothing more to him, Mr. Dixon," said Robert Grantham, who had reached the foot of the stairs. "The truth has been brought to light, and his unutterable villainy is fully exposed. Leave to the future what is yet to be done. Lucy, go and dress our child. We quit this house within the hour. Do not fear; no one shall follow you."
Mrs. Grantham went upstairs to Clair, and she had scarcely reached the room when the street door was burst open, and Rathbeal appeared with Martha in his arms.
"This poor woman threw herself into the water," said Rathbeal. "Tired of life, she sought the peace of death in the river. Give way, Mr. Fox-Cordery; she must be attended to without delay. Obstruct us, and the crime of murder will be on your soul!" He beat Mr. Fox-Cordery back into the room, and laid his burden down on the floor. "You see who it is!"
"She is a stranger to me," muttered Mr. Fox-Cordery, his heart quaking with fear.
"False! You know her well. If she is dead you will be made responsible; for you and no other drove her to her death!"
It was no time to bandy further words. Assisted by Charlotte and John Dixon, he set to work in the task of bringing respiration into the inanimate form, Mr. Fox-Cordery and his mother standing silently by, while Robert Grantham guarded the staircase. Their efforts were successful. In a quarter of an hour Martha gave faint signs of life, and they redoubled their efforts. Martha opened her eyes, and they fell upon Mr. Fox-Cordery.
"That man! that monster!" she murmured, and would have risen, but her strength failed her.
"Rest--rest," said Rathbeal soothingly. "Justice shall be done. You are with friends who will not desert you." Returned to Mr. Fox-Cordery. "Have you no word to speak to your victim?"
"I have no knowledge of her," replied Mr. Fox-Cordery. "You are mad, all of you, and are in a league against me."
"You ruined and betrayed her," said Rathbeal, "and then left her to starve. Is it true, Martha?"
"It is true," she moaned. "God have pity upon me, it is true!"
"Liars--liars!" cried Mr. Fox-Cordery. "Liars all!"
"She speaks God's truth, and it shall be made known to man," said Rathbeal.
He did not scruple to search the room for spirits, and he found some in a sideboard.
"Drink," he whispered to her, "and remember that you have met with friends. You shall not be left to starve. We will take care of her, will we not, Mr. Dixon?"
"I take the charge of her upon myself," said John Dixon. "She shall have the chance of living a respectable life."
"Robert!" said Mrs. Grantham, in a gentle tone. She was standing by his side, holding Clair by the hand. Seeing the woman on the floor she started forward. "Oh, can I do anything? Poor creature! poor creature!"
"We can do all that is required," said John Dixon. "She is getting better already. Go with your husband and child to the inn where we put up the horses. Mr. Grantham knows the way. We will join you there as soon as possible."
Charlotte whispered a few words in his ear.
"Take Charlotte with you, please. She must not sleep another night beneath her brother's roof. Go, my dear."
"Remain here!" cried Mrs. Fox-Cordery, speaking for the first time. "I command you!"
But Charlotte paid no heed to her. Accompanied by her friends, she left her brother's home, never to return.
But little remains to be told. Baffled and defeated, Mr. Fox-Cordery was compelled to sue for mercy, and it was granted to him under certain conditions, in which, be sure, Martha was not forgotten. His accounts were submitted to a searching investigation, and, as John Dixon had anticipated, it was discovered that only a portion of Mrs. Grantham's fortune was lost. Sufficient was left to enable her and her husband and child to live in comfort. Purified by his sufferings, Robert Grantham was the tenderest of husbands and fathers, and he and those dear to him commenced their new life of love and joy, humbly grateful to God for the blessings he had in store for them.
Neither were Little Prue and her mother forgotten. Each of those who are worthy of our esteem contributed something toward a fund which helped them on in the hard battle they were fighting.
A month later our friends were assembled at the wedding of Charlotte and John Dixon. The ceremony over, the newly-married couple bade their friends good-by for a little while. They were to start at once upon their honeymoon.
"It is a comfort," said Rathbeal, shaking John heartily by the hand, "in our travels through life to meet with a man. I have met with two."
"I shall never forget," said John, apart to Mrs. Grantham, "nor will Charlotte, some words of affection you once addressed to her. We know them by heart: 'If the man is true,' you said, 'and the woman is true, they should be to each other a shield of love, a protection against evil, a solace in the hour of sorrow.' Charlotte and I will be to each other a Shield of Love. Thank you for those words, and God bless you and yours."
The last kisses were exchanged.
"God protect you, dear Charlotte," said Mrs. Grantham, pressing the bride to her heart. "A happy life is before you."
"And before you, dear Mrs. Grantham," said Charlotte, hardly able to see for the tears in her eyes.
"Yes, my dear. The clouds have passed away. Come, my child; come, dear Robert!"