Chapter XLVI

A few days after, Cecil was _en route_ for England. Doctor Laurens and his wife bore him company, for the young doctor was anxious to aid in the search for his sister-in-law, in whom he had had such loyal faith so long.

Arrived in London, they put up as usual at their favorite Langham, and the gentlemen sallied forth in search of Florine Dabol.

At the address Louise had given them they found her parents--a decrepit pair of old French people.

Florine was down in the country they said. She was lady’s maid to a great, rich lady, but she had never told them her name. Their daughter came to see them about twice a year, and gave them money to live on, but they never wrote letters to her nor received any communication from her in the interim.

Cecil went away in despair. What should he do now? He had given an address to the old couple, and told them to send word when their daughter came, but how could he wait so long in the fever of remorse, unrest and longing that possessed him?

Surely it was his good angel that made him meet Lord Westerley coming out of a fashionable club.

The urbane nobleman was delighted at the _rencontre_ with Doctor Charley, but he was decidedly stiff with Cecil, who in his preoccupation did not observe the coolness.

“Everybody is out of town,” he said, shrugging his shoulders in the chill November air. “I brought Madelon up from the country this morning for a few days’ shopping. You will come and dine with us this evening?”

Cecil was about to decline, but his brother hastily accepted. When they had parted from Lord Westerley he said:

“Perhaps Lady Westerley can find out where Florine is staying.”

* * * * *

Somehow Cecil got a good chance to confide all his painful story to the beautiful lady who had been his wife’s dearest friend. She listened to him with emotion. The tears even fell from her beautiful eyes.

“But these are tears of joy,” she said, pensively. “I am so glad that the martyrdom of that dear girl is over, and that you had some cause for your apparent heartlessness. Florine Dabol, yes, I can tell you where she is!”

“Oh, Lady Westerley.”

She smiled at the interruption, but continued:

“She is down in the country at The Oaks, our ancestral home. You are aware, Mr. Laurens, that my father and mother both are dead, and that Sir Edward’s grandson has come into the title and estates. Well, Florine is maid to the heir’s mother, my beautiful niece, Ernestine Trueheart.”

She glanced at him sharply as she pronounced the name, but it did not seem to strike his attention.

“I shall go down there tonight,” he said, eagerly.

“Nonsense!” she replied, with a merry laugh. “You would arrive there in the middle of the night. Wait until the morning train. When you get to The Oaks ask for Mrs. Trueheart. When she comes to you tell her what you want of the maid and you will get your wish.”

He obeyed Lady Westerley’s instructions to the letter. He waited till the morning train. When they reached the station where his journey ended he took a shabby fly to The Oaks.

“The lady of The Oaks must excuse the dust of travel. I am too impatient to linger a moment,” he thought.

They drove several miles through one of the most beautiful estates in the country, and at length drew up before a magnificent abode, one of “The stately homes of England.” He paid the driver and dismissed him.

The sun shone brightly on the terraced walks as he proceeded on his way, but suddenly he came to a dead stop and cried out in surprise.

He had come face to face with a woman and a little boy--a lad with a handsome, spirited face, blue eyes, and chestnut curls. It struck him as strangely familiar.

“Phebe, what are you doing here?” he exclaimed in wonder.

It was the maid whom he had discharged at Louise Barry’s instigation. She had not forgotten her wrongs, for she answered, sullenly, as soon as she recognized him:

“I’m nurse to the heir, Mr. Laurens--little Sir Cecil Trueheart!”

He brushed past her, with a smothered sigh to the memory of his wife, and went up the broad stone steps. Presently he found himself waiting in a stately reception-room for the coming of the mistress of The Oaks.

While he waited, he stood at the window watching Phebe and her little charge as they strolled upon the terrace. He murmured to himself, with a thrill of pride:

“Somewhere in England, I have a little son as beautiful and noble, doubtless, as this little heir of a noble line.”

The door opened. A graceful lady in lustrous blue velvet came slowly toward him over the velvet carpet.

At first sight of her there flashed over him the words of the young English girl, his brother’s wife:

“The most beautiful lady in England!”

Dark, curling hair, dark, dreamy eyes, and a face the saddest his eyes had ever seen. She came slowly on until they were face to face, then a cry of passionate joy came from the lips of each:

“My wife!”

“My husband!”

The hour for which she had hoped and longed had come at last. She knew that the truth had come to him somehow, and that the long, sad parting was over for aye. Holding her close in his arms, he told her all. She rang the bell for Florine Dabol, but, seeing Cecil Laurens coming into the house, the wily maid had guessed all. She had instantly fled; and she was clever enough to remain hidden forever from those she had helped Louise to separate.

“My darling, you will forgive me all, even the cruel sneers at your mother, so bitterly repented now?” he said, humbly.

Tears sprang to her eyes.

“Cecil, my mother was an angel,” she said, tenderly. “Although she was an actress, she was not of low birth as Mrs. Barry told you. She was an earnest Christian, too, and I am sure that when she was instantly killed by a railroad collision her pure soul went straight to Heaven. But this is too sad to dwell upon. Come and let me show you our beautiful little son, Sir Cecil.”

THE END.

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Transcriber’s Notes

A table of contents has been added by the transcriber and placed in the public domain.

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected.

Some inconsistent hyphenation has been retained from the original.