Chapter XXIII: The Last Appeal

“I am very glad to know you, Sir Charles,” Arley said, her eyes lingering on the pleasant-sounding English name, while her heart quickened its pulsations as she thought perhaps he might assist her about going home, “and,” with a wistful look into his kind face, “I should like to trespass upon your goodness still further, and ask if you will help me to find some one who is about returning to England, and who would be willing to grant me a little protection.”

Sir Charles’ face lighted with pleasure at this request. “Would you go with me?--with us, I should say, for my mother and I are traveling together.”

Arley’s heart bounded within her at this.

Nothing could be better than for her to be under the protection of an elderly lady, and this kind, noble young man who was her son.

“If you would not mind being troubled with me, I should be very grateful,” she returned, with quivering lips and tear-laden eyes.

She tried to be brave through all that dreadful trial, but now the prospect of going home, under safe protection, bade fair to unnerve her completely.

“Do not call it trouble,” he returned, gently, “it would give us great pleasure to have you with us. We shall travel for three or four months longer, and then return.”

Arley’s face fell, and the fond hope which had animated her but a moment before died within her.

“I am afraid I cannot go with you, then,” she said, a vivid blush dyeing all her face; “for I am obliged to be frank with you--I have not the means to travel. I have barely enough to--to take me home.”

Sir Charles looked embarrassed, even distressed at this acknowledgment.

He would gladly have offered to defray all her expenses, but, being such a stranger to her, he dare not; and he could see that she was very proud--a lady through and through, who would be offended by such a proposal.

He thought a moment, then asked:

“Would you object to the delay I have mentioned, if--if there were no other obstacles?”

“No,” Arley answered, with a sigh; “it does not matter much where I am now. I have friends in London who would welcome me with open arms, and though I long for them, yet I dread to meet them under the circumstances. But necessity compels me to go somewhere--to get away from this dreadful place, where I cannot understand anything that is said to me; for--in the future I shall be obliged to earn my own living.”

She said it frankly, and yet with a little air of pride, as if, despite her poverty, she was not ashamed to have him know it.

“I am very glad that you have told me this, Mrs. Paxton,” her companion said, eagerly, “for now I feel free to say that perhaps my mother can help you, and you can also help her out of a serious difficulty. Her companion--a fine young lady who accompanied us from England--was taken violently ill at Lille, France, and the physicians who attended her said that it would not do for her to resume travel with us--that just as soon as she was sufficiently recovered she must be sent home and have complete rest and freedom from excitement. It was a great trial to my mother to be obliged to part with her, and, having been unable to supply her place, she has been very lonely ever since. If--pardon me, I mean it with all respect to you, and with the desire to contribute to my mother’s comfort--if you could be persuaded to--to accept the vacant position----”

Poor Sir Charles! he knew he was talking to a refined and cultivated lady; it was very hard to offer her a paid position, and he stammered and stumbled dreadfully in his embarrassment.

But Arley came quickly to his aid, her face flushing with gladness, her eyes all alight with new hope, for here was a haven of refuge for her at last.

“Thank you, I should be only too glad to do so,” she said, eagerly; “that is, if madam, your mother, would be satisfied with the arrangement and my poor accomplishments.”

“There will be no trouble about that, I assure you,” Sir Charles replied, much relieved to find how sensibly she had received his proposition. “Now, if you will please give me your address, I will bring her to see you this afternoon, and you can arrange about our departure from Madrid to suit yourselves.”

Arley drew from her pocket a beautiful little card case of filigree gold, and, taking a card from it, wrote the street and number of her residence upon it, and gave it to him.

“Thanks,” he said, thinking that she wrote the prettiest and most delicate hand he ever saw. “Now will you allow me to see you safely home?--for,” with a smile and a suspicious glance around, “I do not like to leave you go alone, while you have so many enemies around you.”

Arley gave him a quick, inquiring look.

“I did not mean to alarm you,” he added, quickly; “but I suppose you have heard that the Spaniards are exceedingly revengeful in their disposition.”

“Yes, I have heard it, but I had forgotten it,” Arley replied, looking a trifle anxious.

“I wish to make sure,” Sir Charles continued, “that you are not annoyed by any one, so by your leave, I will go with you.”

She was very glad to have him; but as they were passing out of the now almost deserted court-room she saw Philip sitting in a dim corner, looking moody and miserable.

A feeling of pity for him stole into her heart.

It seemed as if she could not leave him so--as if she must make one last appeal to him. She might never see him again--it was very probable that she would not--surely she might speak one word of entreaty and farewell before she went out of his life forever.

“Will you please excuse me one moment?” she asked, withdrawing her hand from Sir Charles’ arm just as they reached the door, “I do not like to go without one last word to Mr. Paxton--I will not keep you waiting long.”

“Certainly I will excuse you, and I shall not mind waiting as long as you like,” he returned, kindly, and wondering, from the wistful sadness of those lovely dark eyes, if she could still love the man who had that day shown himself such a traitor and wretch.

Philip had not seen her movements, he was so absorbed in his disagreeable musings that he was not aware of her approach until a gentle voice at his side said:

“Philip!”

Her lips had seldom spoken that name since their marriage, and the sound of it smote him with a keen pain.

But it was only for an instant--the next he turned upon her with a malignant scowl.

She shivered and shrank from him slightly, yet looking so gentle and lovely that his features involuntarily relaxed.

“Well?” he questioned briefly.

“I just wished to say to you,” Arley said, in a hesitating tone, “that I cannot understand why you should have taken this action against me--if you wish to be free I am sorry that you cannot be, but I could not remain silent and allow my character to be defamed, else I should never have appeared against you. I am going away--back to England.”

He started, and flashed a strange look at her as she said this, but she did not appear to notice it.

“I shall go back to Aunt Angeline, and I shall have to tell her why I came back; but further than that I shall say nothing. I shall never seek to see you--I shall never meet you if I can help it, and then in time, if you wish, the law will free you and there need be no publicity about it. But,” and her sweet lips quivered painfully, “I wish our life could have been different--I would have been glad to share almost any lot with you, if you had met your reverses bravely and honorably--I would have been a faithful wife to you--you know that, for I told you so before--for, I did love you very dearly, Philip.

“I do not believe,” Arley went on, eagerly, “that you are acting your true nature. I do not believe that my heart would have been drawn toward you as it was at Hazelmere if there had not been something lovable and honorable in you to call forth my affection. I know you have been bitterly disappointed, and I have grieved more on your account than my own that I was obliged to come to you penniless; but the loss of money is such a little thing compared to that of one’s honor and self-respect. Oh, if I could only make you see how much nobler and better it would be to begin again ever so low socially, with the determination to rise--and with health and ability any one can rise, if he will--than to live as you have been living since our marriage! Do not waste your life thus; be the true-hearted man that I believed you when I first knew you, Philip, will you? Will you go back to England with me?”

How could he resist such a gentle, earnest pleading? How could he help yielding to that sweet-voiced entreaty?

Who can tell how he longed to do so--how, perhaps, he had all but surrendered, when the devil in his heart whispered: “The Lily of Mordaunt has twenty thousand pounds a year, and Wil Hamilton is dead?”

“No,” he said, briefly and sullenly, and turned restlessly away from those tenderly inviting eyes.

A deep sigh fell upon his ear, and it smote him like a blow; but he stubbornly crushed down every better feeling, though afterward he remembered that he was very near yielding as the hopeless sound struck him, and then, with bitter remorse, he cried out:

“Oh, why--why was I so blind and hardened that I would not heed her?”

“Good-by, then, Philip,” and there was a wistful sadness in the sweet voice. “I suppose our paths will widely diverge after this, and we shall never meet again, save, perhaps as strangers meet. But I pray you--I beseech you,” she added, with passionate earnestness, “do not live out your whole life as you are living now; do not let your existence prove a failure; do not wreck the mind, do not ruin the soul which has been given you; for, some day, you know, they will be required of you again. I am a woman; I have lost everything--name and fortune--and now this added blight which you have cast upon me presses me down still more heavily; but”--and now the lovely girl lifted her head with an air of pride and resolution--“I am going to battle against these adverse circumstances with all my might. I am going to make the most and very best of myself. I will not be crushed--I do not believe God means me to be crushed; so, with His help, I shall rise above my troubles; and if, in the future, we should chance to meet again, Philip, I will show you what a woman, preserving her truth and self-respect, can accomplish.”

This was uttered with nothing of arrogance or self-assertion, but with a sort of earnest faith, as if a glimpse had been granted to her through the present darkness of a more hopeful beyond.

She paused a moment and drew off her glove; then added:

“I wish to return this to you. I do not feel that I can wear it any longer; but whenever you chance to look at it, I trust it will remind you that it once bound you to one who would have been glad to prove loyal to the vows to which it was a seal, had you not made it impossible.”

She had drawn off her wedding ring while she was speaking, and now laid it down upon the table by which he sat; then turning, she went slowly back to where Sir Charles Herbert stood waiting for her.