CHAPTER XXII
While the preparations for the ball at Barminster Castle had been going on apace, trouble and confusion reigned in the little village on the banks of the Thames.
No sooner had Mr. Jasper Vermont taken his departure, than poor Lucy Ashford sank on the floor of the shop, and burst into a flood of tears. So great had been the strain that she was completely unnerved, and had quite forgotten the likelihood of her husband's return from Richmond, as well as the mysterious disappearance of Jessica, who had not been seen in the house since the arrival of Adrien Leroy and his unconscious burden.
This sudden realisation of all the presentiment of evil which Lucy Ashford had ever in her mind, had burst on her like a thunderbolt. She had known always that the man, Mr. Jasper Vermont, who knew her secret, was alive; but never before had she been actually threatened with its betrayal. Her father, Mr. Harker, had always stood between her and that dreadful possibility.
Presently, she jumped up and called to Jessica. Then she remembered that the girl had disappeared from the time she had sent her from the room. Fearful that Vermont might yet change his mind and return for the night, she ran to the door, calling out Jessica's name in a paroxysm of nervous terror, which finally, on receiving no reply, ended in a severe attack of hysterics, in the midst of which her husband returned and found her.
With an exclamation of alarm, he raised her from the floor and bore her upstairs to the bed on which Lady Merivale had lain such a short time ago. He was greatly puzzled by the disordered appearance of the room, and his first thought was of burglars. He gave no time to this, however, but hastened to get his wife into bed, then rushed out for a doctor. When he returned with him it was found that Lucy had relapsed into a state of fever, and was talking deliriously, of an inn at Canterbury, an individual of the name of Johann Wilfer, and most of all, making plaintive appeals to Jasper Vermont not to betray her.
As the next day Jessica had not returned, Ashford found all his work cut out for him, to see after the shop and the children, as well as his wife. A kindly neighbour came to his rescue; but John insisted on nursing Lucy himself, while the woman remained downstairs.
At first, the husband paid little attention to the wandering, incoherent sentences of his wife; but as the first excitement died down, and they began to take distinct form, he bent over her, and learned the one error of her life. Naturally, poor John recoiled in horror; the whole thing seemed so incredible, so impossible to believe. Yet, when he had had time to reflect, he saw that this explained all the little strangenesses in his wife's conduct and manner; her intense nervousness at the sight of any stranger; her reticence as to her youthful days; all this was borne in on his mind, and he realised that he had been deceived. His wife, in whom he had so trusted, had loved another before him; and at the bitter truth, John Ashford utterly broke down, and, hiding his face in the counterpane, sobbed like a child. Tears sometimes are Nature's own medicine, and do more to soften the heart than any words. After the first shock had worn away, Ashford commenced to look back on the happy days he had spent with Lucy; the way she had worked with him, and for him. These thoughts did their healing work, and accordingly, a few days later, when Lucy Ashford returned to consciousness, she found her husband's eyes gazing into hers with only pitying tenderness in their depths.
"John," she said faintly, "have I been ill?"
"Yes, dear," he replied gently.
Something in his saddened tones, or perhaps strange intuition, told Lucy that her secret was no longer hers alone.
"John!" she cried, her voice shaking with terror and weakness. "You know all!" And she hid her face in her hands.
Her husband bent over her tenderly and kissed the thin cheek.
"Yes, dear," he said. "You've told me all. Why didn't you trust me before?"
She looked at him in wonder, hardly believing the evidence of her own ears. Was this all the reproach and anger he would deal out to her? Could it be possible that, knowing all, the man she had loved, yet feared, solely on this account, would not only forgive but take her into his heart again? As if in answer to her bewildered thoughts, John's arm was around her neck, and his kiss of forgiveness fell upon her lips.
Presently, she looked up, with a look of ineffable peace and gratitude on her face.
"John," she said, "send for poor father; it will be new life to him to know that this dreadful weight is off my heart, and that you, knowing what a bad woman I have been, will still call me your wife. Oh, fetch him to me soon, dear, that he may be happy too."
Her husband kissed her again, and without another word left the room. Giving some directions to the neighbour who was still in the shop, he set out at once on his journey. He drove into Hampton and took the first train to London, where he intended to tell his father-in-law the whole story, and learn what details he could; for he did not wish ever to bring up the subject again, so far as Lucy was concerned.
Now it happened that Mr. Harker was late at the office that night, bending, sad and wrinkled, over his interminable papers; the whole business connected with which was so repugnant to him. Sigh after sigh escaped his thin lips, as he read the piteous appeals, and knew that he must refuse them; must deal out fresh misery against his will. It was hard to be the tool of such a merciless fiend; to be the servant of such a master of deceit, villainy and fraud; but so greatly did the father love his child that he would scarce have hesitated in committing a murder had Jasper Vermont set that crime as a price of his forbearance and silence. He would have purchased his daughter's safety and happiness with his heart's blood, if need be.
Unconscious of the release that was so fast approaching, he worked on, setting in order the various accounts which Vermont would require to be laid before him on the following day; and entering in a book concise histories of the debts and difficulties which placed dozens of Jasper's acquaintances within his power.
A knock at the door startled him, and roused him from his task. Hastily shutting the ledger before which he was seated, and covering the deeds and documents with a large sheet of paper, the old man rose and opened the door.
It was his son-in-law, John Ashford, and at the sight of his round, kindly face, Harker staggered back, and clutched at the table.
"Lucy!" he gasped out. "Is she ill?"
"All right! All right!" said John reassuringly, but in a quieter voice than his usual jovial one. "Don't be frightened. But when she says 'Go and fetch father,' you see, I come and fetch you directly."
Mr. Harker was not to be deceived by this attempt at a jest.
"She is ill!" he cried, the perspiration breaking out on his forehead.
John nodded.
"She is better now," he said. "But I should like you to come down at once. We shall catch a train to Hampton Court, and I have a trap waiting for me there." Without any further explanation--for after thinking the matter over, he had determined that Lucy herself should break the news to her father--he helped the old man, still trembling and shaking, to put on his coat, and to lock up the office; and it was not until they were well on their way, that John told him how he had found his wife a fortnight ago, lying unconscious on the ground.
Mr. Harker's troubled face darkened, and his thin hands clenched and unclenched themselves, for he knew Mr. Vermont only too well, and the thought had already crossed his mind that this sudden illness was in some way due to that gentleman's interference.
Outside Hampton Court station they found the horse and cart for which John had arranged; and the two men got in silently and started off once more. They were within a short distance of their destination, when John pulled up the horse with an exclamation of astonishment. They were in a narrow lane, with barely room enough for the cart to pass along, and almost within a yard of the horse's hoofs stood the figure of a young girl.
Ashford recognised her in an instant; with a shout of warning, he threw the reins to his father-in-law and, leaping to the ground, caught the girl by the arm.
"Jessica!" he cried reproachfully. "What are you doing here?"
She looked up at him in silence, and her eyes filled with tears.
"I am coming back to you," she said at last, in a low voice, "if you will have me? There was some one I wanted to see again in London, or I would never have gone; for, oh! sir, I know how good you and Mrs. Ashford have been to me."
John appeared relieved.
"I thought you weren't one of the sort to go off and leave my Lucy just because she was ill and wanted extra help," he said, in a tone of relief.
"Ill," repeated Jessica, with a look of bewilderment. "She was not ill when I left her. It was the other lady who was ill."
John, of course, knew nothing of Lady Merivale, and gazed at Jessica as though she had taken leave of her senses.
"I don't know what lady you mean," he said; "but my wife has been very ill for the past two weeks, and asking for you often. You see, I thought you had run away and left her."
"I will drive back with you, please, sir, if you have room for me. I didn't know Mrs. Ashford was ill," said the girl, humbly following him, as he turned towards the trap.
He lifted her up, and fastened her in securely.
All this time Mr. Harker had taken no notice of the little episode, save to wonder slightly at the delay. But directly he caught sight of the vivid, dark beauty of the girl, he started.
"Who is this?" he asked John, who was hurriedly driving on again.
"A poor girl whom Lucy has befriended," he replied. "Why, did you think you recognised her?"
Mr. Harker shook his head. She strongly resembled some one he had seen; but, for the moment, he could not call to mind who that person was.
"What is her name?" he inquired.
"Jessica," replied his son-in-law. "She doesn't seem to know any other."
They drove on in silence, broken presently by Mr. Harker, who had stolen another glance at the silent girl.
"A wonderful likeness," he murmured. "I could have sworn that was Ada Lester, the actress, as she used to be."
He relapsed again into silence, and John was too much wrapped up in his own thoughts to question him further.
They reached the little shop at last, and Jessica ran lightly and quickly up to the bedroom. She was welcomed warmly by Lucy, who had grown to like the girl, and had been greatly upset by her absence.
"I'm glad you have come back, dear," she whispered, as Jessica bent over her. "Where have you been?"
"To London, dear Mrs. Ashford. I did not know you were ill. I came back with Mr. Ashford."
"John!" exclaimed Lucy, the colour rising in her face. "My father as well?"
"Yes," said the girl. "I will call them."
She did so, and a moment later John and Mr. Harker entered the room.
"Here he is, dear, you shall tell him the news yourself, while I take the horse back," said the kindly John. He bent over and kissed her; and Lucy followed him with wistful, adoring eyes, as he went out accompanied by Jessica.
The next half-hour was an affecting one for father and daughter. Harker could hardly believe the good news; for so long had they tried and succeeded in keeping the truth back from Ashford, that it seemed incredible indeed that he had forgiven freely and wholly. Mr. Harker looked a different being when, after kissing his daughter affectionately, he left her and went down to the little parlour.
John was sitting smoking his pipe; but he started up when the old man entered.
"What is the matter?" he said, as he looked at his pale face. "Is she worse?"
"No," said Harker. "She is better, thank Heaven! John Ashford," he continued humbly, "I have come to beg your forgiveness for the pain we have caused you. I knew my girl to be a good girl, although she had once been so foolish. I knew she would make you a true loving wife, in spite of her sin. It was I who overcame her scruples, and bade her marry you. I did it for the best. I did it that she might be happy; for I knew how she loved you, and she so feared to lose your love and respect. She tells me you have forgiven her, but can you forgive me?"
John grasped his hand.
"Of course I do," he said heartily. "You did it for her so I have nothing to forgive. If my poor darling had only plucked up courage and told me all, the hour we were man and wife, she would have learned how dearly I loved her, and it would have saved you both many unhappy years."
Tears of gratitude stood in Harker's eyes, as he returned the handclasp.
"Heaven bless you, John," he murmured. "Not many men would be so merciful. We will never speak of this again. You will not repent your generosity."
"What are you going to do?" asked Ashford; struck by something unusual in the old man's voice.
"I am going back to London," said Harker, smiling grimly, as in anticipation of a pleasant task. "I have work to do, an account to settle now--for Lucy and myself. You don't know all yet, John; you don't know, you never will know, all that Lucy and I have suffered."
He paused as if overcome by his emotion; then continued in trembling voice:
"We have been slaves all these years, trembling and shrinking under a villain's nod and frown. I've sold myself to a demon, who, in consideration of my services--of my body and soul--promised to keep his talons from my poor Lucy. He discovered her mistake; and he threatened to let the whole world know, to tell you all, if I did not bind myself to do his villainous work. I have done it for years. I have endured shame and agony unspeakable, that my darling's secret might be safe. I have been his tool and his scapegoat. I, an old man, on my way to the grave, have earned--and rightly earned--the names of usurer and thief. All this I have done and suffered that he should never blight my child's happiness by his presence. He has broken the contract. He came down here that night you went to Richmond, and, with his fiendish ways and threats, nearly killed her. Well, now his power has gone. Thanks to your generosity, your forgiveness, Lucy is free, and I am free. Now I take my turn, and for every tear he has wrung from my darling's eyes, I will wring a groan from his black heart."
John had listened to him with intense surprise. He knew his father-in-law was in business in the City; but he did not know that the business of "Harker's," for which he had a great respect, had anything to do with moneylending. Still he refrained from asking any questions; and seeing that Mr. Harker was practically exhausted by the excitement and the news, persuaded him to spend the remainder of the night with them, and travel back to town in the morning.
After reflection the old man agreed to this; and it was a very happy little party that met at the breakfast-table next day.
Mr. Harker, unable to sleep, had let his thoughts go back to Jessica; and in the silence of the night a picture had arisen before his eyes; a theatre in which a dark-eyed young girl was dancing, amidst a crowd of others. In his delight at having a clue he cried aloud, "Ada Lester, at the Rockingham!" The more he thought of it the more sure he felt that this girl must be the daughter, or at least some connection, of the well-known actress.
On questioning Jessica, all the information he could obtain from her was that which she had given Adrien Leroy. Johann Wilfer was the boundary of her existence. Harker remembered the name as that of the man from whom he had bought the picture, and he also knew now that he it was who had been responsible for Lucy's early sin. But he was not to be shaken from his belief that in some way Jessica must be related to Ada Lester, and he asked the girl whether she would travel up to London with him, and trust herself to his care.
Jessica looked up into his lined face.
"Yes," she said simply, "if you won't give me back to Johann."
Harker readily promised this, and, amid many smiles and wavings of hand from the assembled Ashford family, the two started on their way.
On reaching London, Mr. Harker's first visit was to the Casket Theatre, which Jessica at once remembered as the one before which she had kept watch for Adrien Leroy; and with that recollection came the memory of the roll of papers which she had picked up. She related this little incident to Harker; and undoing the bag in which kind-hearted Lucy had put some clothes for her, she found the papers and gave them to him.
Harker looked them over, and gave a cry of joy; for he realised at once that they delivered his arch-enemy into his hands--no miracle from Heaven itself could have done more. Jessica did not understand the reason for his excitement, but she was quite content to let the papers remain in his keeping.
At the theatre he inquired for Miss Lester; and, it being matinée day, he found that the popular actress had already arrived. It took time and money to convince the military-looking door-keeper that it was absolutely necessary to take an urgent message to Miss Lester, but eventually this was done, and Mr. Harker, with Jessica---who was almost dazed by the strangeness of her surroundings--found themselves in Miss Lester's dressing-room, a few minutes before she was due on the stage as Prince Bon-Bon.
Mr. Harker at once hastened to apologise for the intrusion; but, in the midst of his words, he broke off short, for Jessica and the actress were gazing at one another in a mutual recognition. Jessica remembered her at once as the lady who had been with Adrien Leroy; then came the earlier memory, which had so puzzled her on the night she had seen the actress entering the theatre.
"Jessica!" exclaimed Miss Lester, blankly, and she turned on the astounded Harker. "What's the meaning of this?"
The few minutes were nearly up, and the call-boy and the dresser had met in several consultations with regard to the difficulty of getting Miss Lester on to the stage in time, before Mr. Harker's explanations were through.
Ada, now thoroughly assured as to her own future, thanks to her recent visit to Barminster, was quite willing to look after her niece better than in the past; especially as her presence formed a strong link in the chain of evidence the actress intended shortly to bring against Jasper Vermont. She assured Harker that she would take care of the girl, and with this he was content; then, leaving Jessica in her aunt's charge, he made his way to his own office, prior to taking a journey down to Barminster Castle.