CHAPTER XXVI.
A LONG EXPLANATION.
“Well, my love,” said Sir Lawrence, when the first rapture of reunion was over, and his wife was leaning languidly against him, like one faint with too much joy, “are you going to take me on trust now, after having shown such poor faith in me hitherto?”
She looked up at him with a shy smile.
“I am sure you will tell me of your own accord what it is right I should know.”
“Exactly; and I only regret, dear Gwen, that I was so foolishly sensitive in the beginning as to withhold it. But there are some things it is so hard to tell.”
“Then keep silent, Lawrence.”
“No, darling; you and I will never have any disguises for the future. The poor unhappy woman you saw at Borton Hall was my only sister.”
“Your sister? Oh, Lawrence! can you ever forgive me?” she exclaimed penitently.
“I think I can, if I try very hard,” he answered, with a smile. “And I must own that appearances were sadly against me. But it is a very painful story, Gwen. Poor Mary was married at eighteen to a man she loved with all her heart; and though she began to change from that very day, she was so loyal I never once suspected her secret. But two years after her marriage her mind gave way altogether, and then, for the first time, I discovered that her brutal husband had subjected her to every kind of ill-usage and degradation. She was even scarred by his blows, poor soul! and such a wreck! My very blood runs cold when I think of it. I placed her with a doctor, who was very skilful in the treatment of mental disorders; and, after awhile, she seemed to mend a little, although she had extraordinary and painful delusions, and was so restless that it was impossible to lose sight of her for a moment. In one of these fits she actually came to Borton on foot, and must have wandered about the house, since you saw her.”
“She came into the room where I was, and asked me if I had seen her husband.”
“Exactly. That was one of the most distressing phases of her malady, to my mind: that she was always wanting her husband, and seemed to think me so cruel in keeping her away from him. Her mind was so completely gone that she had no recollection of his ill-usage; and, although this was well for some reasons, it made a good many difficulties. But she could never have actually mentioned me by name when she spoke of her husband?”
“I am afraid I jumped to conclusions a little,” replied Lady Gwendolyn contritely. “Now I know the truth, I see I might have put a different construction on her words.”
Then she told him about her journey to Borton, and how she had received there what she believed to be a full confirmation of her fears. Sir Lawrence was glad she had not condemned him without what seemed to her good proof, although he could hardly understand where a delicate young creature like Lady Gwendolyn had found the courage for such a task.
“And so ill as you were, too, at the time,” he said tenderly.
“Yes; but the hope of seeing or hearing something that would exonerate you made me valiant, Lawrence. I determined to make ‘assurance doubly sure’ before I left you for good, because—because I did want to stay with you so badly.”
“Then why didn’t you?” he asked, just to try her. “Even I should not have known that you were compromising with your conscience in so doing, if you had burned the paper you had picked up, and said nothing about it.”
“That is true; but I could never have kept it to myself; and, what is more, I should have been utterly miserable, especially after baby’s birth.”
“Why more especially after baby’s birth?”
“Because, if it had all come out one of these days, he would not have had a very high opinion of his mother; and, of course, I want baby to respect me.”
She said this with a little air of matronly dignity that was fine to see, and amused and touched him equally.
“I’ll take care Master Baby is brought up to think there never was such a woman as his mother,” he said, smiling. “Boys always imitate their fathers.”
“Do they? I’m so glad!” she answered naïvely. “But, Lawrence, tell me who was it sent you that telegram in Paris?”
“The gentleman with whom poor Mary was living.”
“And where is she now?”
“Dead, poor heart!” he replied solemnly and feelingly. “She left Mr. Jepherson’s house the last time she came to Borton very insufficiently clad, and traveled one whole night. The consequence was that she caught a cold, which settled on her lungs, and only lingered three weeks. I loved her very dearly; but I cannot regret her, Gwen.”
“I suppose it was just an instinct that made her always take refuge at Borton.”
“She knew that I had been mixed up in some way in separating her from her scoundrel of a husband, and this gave her the notion that I was keeping them apart. I could not make her realize any part of the past that would hinder her from dwelling on this one idea. All her other delusions changed; but that was a steady, fixed conviction that all the reasoning in the world would not alter. Her last words were: ‘I am going to my husband, now, in spite of you all.’ And it was strange, Gwen; but Captain Lowe died the very day before she did, so that, perhaps, who can tell? they did meet again in another world.”
Lady Gwendolyn’s face was very sad now as she leaned against her husband’s shoulder.
“Poor Mary! what a miserable fate; and she looked so young still.”
“Four-and-twenty. I will show you her grave when we go to Borton.”
“Don’t tell me, if you would rather not, Lawrence, but I should like to know why you kept this such a profound secret?”
“Because people believed her to be dead, and it seemed to me better so. Captain Lowe would have claimed her directly, if he fancied there was anything to be gained by it. As it was, he often tried to exact money from me.”
“Yes; but you might have confided in me,” she said half reproachfully.
“I was so afraid that my love for you would make me disloyal to poor Mary, and then, if a mere inkling of the truth had come out, Captain Lowe would have left me no peace of my life.”
“But after we were married you knew I could be trusted, Lawrence.”
“If you had questioned me then, I should have told you all; but as you did not do so, I was glad to leave well alone.”
“You wouldn’t have liked me to have any secret from you, Lawrence.”
“No, my love, that is true; at the same time, you must remember that you might have had half a dozen mad relatives, and I should not have known. The fact is”—and his voice changed—“I was terribly sensitive about it, Gwen. I was so afraid you would make a trouble of it, and fancy insanity was hereditary in the Dacre family. My uncle’s eccentricity would have confirmed the impression, and the very idea of a possible fate of this kind for your unborn child would almost have worried you into your grave.”
“I am afraid it would,” she admitted.
“But let us talk of something more cheerful now, Gwen. Who do you think is coming to see you to-morrow?”
“Not Mrs. O’Hara?” said Lady Gwendolyn, looking alarmed.
“A very bad guess. Try again.”
“Pauline?”
“Heaven forbid! Will you give it up?”
“Is it Beatrice Ponsonby?”
“No again.”
“Tell me, then.”
“Your brother, Reginald.”
Lady Gwendolyn changed color.
“Is it worth while?” she asked coldly. “Pauline is sure to take care that we do not keep friends long, in case we should compare notes.”
“You may compare notes as long as you like; you cannot hurt Pauline more than she has hurt herself.”
And Sir Lawrence told his wife the miserable, guilty story, knowing quite well that the very idea of Reginald’s being in trouble would make his generous, impulsive little wife forget her own wrongs in a moment.
And so it was.
“Oh! poor Reggie, how very shameful and wicked! How could she?—how could she?” was all Lady Gwendolyn could say. “She promised me so faithfully she would be a good wife for the future, if I would not tell my brother the truth.”
“And perhaps she meant it all the time, Gwen; but she had got into the habit of these intrigues, and could not live without the excitement. If she had had children she might have been a better woman; but she did not care for Lord Teignmouth from the first, and then he did leave her too much liberty.”
“I told him so once, but he said that a wife who needed watching was not worth keeping. Then she always pretended to be such a prude.”
“She hadn’t that character in the world, I assure you.”
“But Reginald would be the last to hear of that; and if he had, she would have persuaded him that the women were jealous of her, and so tried to injure her with him. An artful woman can so easily manage her husband.”
“Indeed!” said Sir Lawrence, laughing; “that is a bad lookout for me.”
“I am not artful, sir! How dare you speak in that way to baby’s mama?”
“I see baby’s mama is a very important person. I only hope that baby’s papa is not going to be put entirely aside on his account. I begin to fear lest I have a very influential rival near the throne. If the boy is to divide us, instead of drawing us closer together, I shall wish he had never been born.”
“You dear, foolish man!” she said, understanding perfectly the jealous feeling that prompted this speech.
Lord Teignmouth looked very shamefaced when he first presented himself before his sister, but Lady Gwendolyn soon set him at his ease. She put her arms round his neck, and said heartily:
“I am so glad to see you again, dear old fellow! Don’t let us talk about anything disagreeable.”
And as he was very glad to be spared, and knew he should have opportunities of showing what he was not allowed to say, he gave in at once, and covered his embarrassment by asking to see “our heir.”
Two days later Sir Lawrence took his wife to Milworth Abbey, where there were fine rejoicings, we may be sure. The house had been useless to the neighborhood, socially speaking, for years, and every one was glad to welcome a brighter reign.
Sir Lawrence was already known and liked, and Lady Gwendolyn soon won golden opinions from all sorts of people. The poor almost worshiped her. As she often said, since she had lived and nearly lost, she must make others the happier for her happiness, or perhaps Heaven would take her blessings from her, and she had so many now, she had need indeed to be grateful.
THE END.
No. 227 of the New Bertha Clay Library, entitled “The Tie That Binds,” by Bertha M. Clay, is a romance that has many elements of tragedy and holds the reader enthralled all the way through.
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