CHAPTER XVII.
IN THE FIRELIGHT.
Earl Verner returned from London by the evening mail, after having put the law into active operation on Lionel’s behalf. When he came bustling into the coziest of cozy drawing-rooms, having rushed in before anybody had time to go out and meet him in the hall, he was most agreeably surprised by a singularly happy-looking family party.
Lionel Hammerton, in the easiest of easy chairs (the hero of the evening, the especial delight of all beholders just then), was sitting near Mrs. Arthur Phillips, on one side of the fire. On the other sat the Countess, looking almost herself again, and close by her side was the artist. Before the fire, sitting in a rather constrained manner, was a stranger—a mild-looking, inoffensive gentleman, with brown curly whiskers and expressive grey eyes. This latter person was Mr. Bales, whom Lionel had brought with him from Brazencrook, in order that he might relate the singular story of his capture to the Earl. His lordship being away, the Countess had insisted upon Mr. Bales coming into the drawing-room and telling her all about it.
And so they had sat in the firelight, this happy grateful group of friends, listening to the detective’s story. It was one of those first chilly autumn nights with falling rain, when the farmer begins to have fears for the wheat which should have been carried the week before; one of those nights when the shortening of the days begins to be more particularly apparent, and when you feel that winter is really not far off, and the sooner it comes the better. So the curtains were drawn over the windows, and the great dogs in the fireplace were weighted with a glowing pile of wood. The firelight fairly contested supremacy of effect with the numerous wax candles, sending flickers of light into the furthest corners, and reflecting its radiance in the mirrors on the opposite side of the room. Mrs. Arthur Phillips, with her wealth of wavy hair, her deep blue eyes, and those half-parted lips,—a round, rosy dimpled beauty,—(Dicksee’s Miranda arrived at the full beauty of womanhood),—looked like some painter’s dream of perfect loveliness in this softened light of evening. There was just a shade of melancholy now and then upon her fair hopeful features; but her newly-awakened joy at Hammerton’s escape, chased the shadow away almost before there was time to note it. The Countess looked considerably older than Phœbe; there was an air of matronly and aristocratic dignity in Amy’s manner which was entirely foreign to that of Phœbe. The anxiety which Amy had undergone had left its traces upon her; and for the last few days she had suffered a world of agony and remorse, which she could never explain to anybody. She had endured the cruellest tortures on Hammerton’s account. She could not have borne up against her fears and sorrows much longer; but for Hammerton’s timely release the Earl would have known everything, and from her own lips.
Never had she prayed so fervently for guidance and succour and mercy as she had done during these few days of her severest mental agony; and it seemed to her as if her petitions had been specially answered in this most unlooked-for and marvellous release of Lionel Hammerton,—not only from custody, but from suspicion. And he, how grateful he was on her account; and he had felt a bitter pang of self-condemnation when he thought how deeply he had wronged her in his foul and absurd suspicion. It seemed to him as if Fortune had willed it that he should be unjust to this woman; as if Fate had put a finger upon his love to blight his dearest hopes. This woman, whom he had loved and lost through neglect and suspicion; this woman, the memory of whose love he had vowed to treasure up as a sweet dream of the past,—again had Fate stepped in and cast down the idol.
And so they sat there in the evening whilst Mr. Bales related to them the story which we have already told in the previous chapters, and they all pitied poor Dibble. When “Thomas” was in his cell, he insisted upon telling Mr. Bales how he came to commit so great a crime. The reproaches of his wife had rung in his ears night and day. It had seemed as if the devil had told him to touch that roll of notes; and when he felt his hand upon the money, he could not help taking it. Crying like a child, and sitting on the edge of the little prison bedstead, Dibble said he had never known before what that beautiful prayer meant, in which we asked our Father to lead us not into temptation.
Whereupon the Countess told Earl Verner what she knew of Mrs. Dibble, and hoped that something might be done for both of them.
Mr. Bales said Mrs. Dibble’s money had been all lost in one way or another during the panic, and this had led to all their misfortunes.
“Have you written to her, Mr. Bales?” the Countess asked.
“I have not, your ladyship. The prisoner was most anxious that I should not do so: it would kill her, he said.”