“What had become of Gladys? How had she managed? Was she starving—lost in London, with not a friend in the world? In an instant my rage was quenched. I saw her only in her sweetness, her beauty, and I leaned against the gate, overwhelmed with the flood of miserable thoughts that crowded upon me.
“But it was not a time for dreams. I felt I must act. So I hurried to the house-agents, feeling sure that they could tell me something. From them I gleaned the barest information. My wife had visited them early in the morning following that dreadful night, paid them the rent to the end of the quarter, and left the key. I questioned them closely and eagerly, but could gather nothing more, and then I went away, feeling like a man whose life was almost ended. Over and over again I whispered to myself, with a twinge of remorse, that Gladys was innocent, and would have explained all if I had only let her. Then the memory of Everest’s words, the damning evidence of Conway’s note, returned, and I knew not what to think; but on one point I was certain—henceforth life held no duty for me till Gladys was found. Though the golden dream of our joy was ended, though I doubted her, she must be found and cared for.
“I began a search—a search, Stuart, that has lasted all my life. By good hap at this time a distant cousin, dying, bequeathed me his property, which, though not large, came like a godsend at the moment, for every available penny I had, had been expended in my search. I was haunted by my wife’s pale, horror-stricken face gleaming in the moonlight, by the memory of my baby child, whose prattle had sounded like music in my ears. I knew too well the miseries, the horrors, of London, and I could not bear to think that the woman I had held so near and—Heaven help me!—still treasured in my heart, was thrown into its terrible jaws and left to perish without a helping hand.
“I pray Heaven, Stuart, you may never know the darkness of those days, the unspeakable anguish, the depth of despair! Weeks passed. I could find no trace, and when I was tortured with the conflicting emotions which surged within me an event occurred that put the last stroke to my misery, added the ghastly weight of a wrong to my burden, a wrong which I could never wipe away.
“I had resigned my post at the club, and, in my eager restlessness, wandering about the London streets, either alone or with one of my detectives, I was lost even to the remembrance of the frequenters of my old haunts. One day, however, I met a man who had been very friendly with me, and in the course of conversation—I would gladly have avoided him if I could—he told me there were several letters awaiting me at the club. None knew where to send them.
“I went for the letters, urged by a wild hope that Gladys might have written. She had. It was a letter that is graven on my heart in characters of blood. Heaven give me strength to tell you; for even now, after so many years, I grow faint when I think of it! It was a long, hurriedly-written letter—the letter of a distraught woman. I will not give it to you here; there were no reproaches, but there was a clear statement of facts given by a broken heart. In my anxiety I could scarcely read the first lines, but some words further on caught my eyes, and held them as by magnetic power. They spoke, Stuart, of the persecution she had endured for weeks from Hugh Everest. Again and again, Gladys wrote, she felt urged to speak to me, but she knew I valued him as a friend, and she trusted that his honor, his manliness, would overcome his baser feelings, and that he would go away. Of Guy Conway she spoke tenderly and earnestly. The letter I had brought forward as a proof of their guilt was indeed written by him; but it referred to a painting he was engaged upon of herself and her child, which she had intended leaving at her aunt’s house, hoping that the sight of the baby’s angel-face would break down the icy barrier which caused her such pain. This had been a little plan of his, suggested when he saw how the estrangement troubled her. She was at Conway’s studio, but only for the purpose of discussing the delivery of the picture; and, catching sight of Hugh Everest, in a moment of agitation and dislike she openly expressed a wish not to see him. Conway at once undertook to prevent their meeting, with what terrible result you know. My wife ended her letter by stating that she was gone from my life forever with her child. The shock of my suspicions had destroyed all joy or happiness evermore for her; but, though separated, she would live as became my wife and the mother of my child, for whose sake alone she could now endure life. This ended it; there was no sign, no clew, no word to lead me to her.
“I was not a man, Stuart, when I had read that letter; I was a brute—a savage animal. Had Hugh Everest been near me, I should have torn his cruel heart from his body, and his tongue from his false, lying lips. A fury seized me to find him—find him, though I searched the world round; face to face with him, I could breathe out the passion, remorse, revenge, scorn, and agony of my bursting heart. But I could not leave England till I knew where my darling was, my sweet, wronged angel—till I had knelt in the dust at her feet, and bowed my head in shame; and so my search went on.
“Years passed, but only a slight clew turned up now and then, always with the same ending. I have wandered—led by these disheartening clews—from one country to another; and at last the men I employed grew weary, and I had to work alone. But I was kept alive by my love and my desire for revenge. Everest never came to England—coward and villain—but the day came, a day not long past, when we met, and on his dying bed I forced him to confess his wrong and own his deceit. Then, when he was gone, the misery of my wasted life returned, and I sunk for a while beneath my load of care.
“Hope was almost dead forever when I visited you at Crosbie; and then suddenly by one of those strange, unexpected chances that come to us at times, it burst into a living, glowing flame once more. All through the past years I had prayed that, should Gladys be gone, my child might be spared; and, Stuart, my prayer was granted. At Crosbie one morning I came face to face with a girl at sight of whom I seemed to have stepped back into the past. I was startled by the image of my sweet wife. I spoke to the girl, learned her name—Margery Daw—and not until she had gone did hope wake in my breast, bringing once more the feeling of eager gladness that I thought dead forever.
“I waited a day or two, but quietly made inquiries, and obtained all the information I wanted; then, having first tested the truth and honesty of your nature, I determined to confide all to you, and claim my child; for that she is my child there is no doubt. But happiness was not to be grasped at once; again fate was unkind. When I made my way to the cottage where Margery lived, it was to find her gone—gone across the sea to Australia. The sudden pain and disappointment aside, I was myself again. Australia was nothing to me; I would start at once, and clasp my child yet in my arms before I died.