Chapter XXV: Philip Paxton’s Return

For a time we must leave our fair wanderer, and go back to our friends at Hazelmere.

Poor Lady Elaine!--sweet but heart-broken Lily of Mordaunt--to her, also, it seemed as if “hope was dead, and life was vain.”

She could not at first believe the terrible news that had come to them from across the broad Atlantic; she could not believe that Wil--tender, noble Wil Hamilton--was dead; was lying cold and mangled, upon the cruel rocks of some far-away abyss, or, worse yet, his crushed and bruised body devoured by some ravenous beast of the forest.

For many days she lay upon her bed, her head covered, her hands pressed tightly over her eyes, as if to shut out some horrible sight, or the fierce growling of the greedy beast, which, gloating over its prey, had, she believed, dragged her loved one to its lair and devoured him, thus literally wiping out every trace of him from the face of the earth.

It seemed as if she could not live and bear it--as if she had neither strength nor inclination ever to rise again and battle with her misery.

But when she began to realize how crushed and broken poor Sir Anthony was, with all his fondest hopes blasted by the loss of his only son and heir; when she looked into that heart-broken mother’s agonized face, she felt as if a great duty lay before her, as if it belonged to her to put aside her own bitter grieving, and devote herself to them, and strive, in some measure, to fill the place of the dear one whom they had lost.

And so she meekly took up this cross--it was no light one either--and, little by little, she won those wretched parents from the hopeless despair that seemed likely to unsettle their reason.

She won them to listen to her while she read to them; she coaxed them to drive or walk with her; to play at chess or backgammon, and sought by every possible device to keep them occupied and interested, so that they need not continually brood over and rebel against the ways of One who gives, and who has a right also to take.

Thus the months went by until the anniversary of Arley’s marriage came around.

Lady Elaine had not heard from her for a long time--not since she had written her letter of condolence upon learning of their sad bereavement at Hazelmere, and was ignorant of her whereabouts at the present time. She had never felt very confident of Arley’s happiness, and less so during the last few months, for there had been a restraint wholly unnatural to her in her letters.

Arley had, indeed, been very reserved, never alluding in the slightest way to her troubles, nor referring to her straitened circumstances. Her epistles were mostly descriptive of the places which she visited and the interesting things she saw, while she always aimed to write in a cheerful strain, for she dreaded to have her friends even suspect that her marriage had been such a miserable failure.

But, in spite of her assumed cheerfulness, and the often humorous strain of her letters, Lady Elaine mistrusted that all was not well with her. She never mentioned her husband, and no happy wife would be guilty of such an omission as this, she thought, while she had no faith whatever in Philip Paxton.

Another reason for this fear and uneasiness, was in their protracted sojourn. They had intended at first being absent only three or four months, and now a year had elapsed, and nothing was said about their return; and taking into consideration Arley’s loss of fortune and Philip’s unfortunate speculations, which Wil had confided to her, she felt quite sure that something was very wrong.

Late in November it became necessary for Sir Anthony to go up to London for a month or so on business. He could not make up his mind to go alone; he clung to his wife now almost as a child clings to its mother, while Lady Elaine had become a sort of necessity to them both--so he insisted upon their going as a family.

They took rooms at the Langham, for they all shrank from occupying their town house, since every room contained so much to remind them of poor, lost Wil, and would only serve to open their wounds afresh.

One day Lady Hamilton and Lady Elaine drove out to Kew Garden, just for the ride, for they could not give up their customary exercise even though they were in that dense city.

On their return, Lady Hamilton passed into the hotel, while Lady Elaine remained behind to settle with their driver.

It took some little time to make the change and arrange for another drive the following day; but at length it was all settled, and Lady Elaine turned to follow her companion.

Just as she entered the vestibule she encountered a gentleman, but would have passed him unnoticed, if he had not raised his hat and bowed to her.

Then she raised her eyes, with an inquiring look, and saw Philip Paxton gazing down upon her.

“Mr. Paxton,” she cried, in surprise, while her face lighted with pleasure; for she thought as he had returned, Arley of course had come with him, and their former friendship would be renewed.

He, however, mistook her look and tone as indicating her pleasure at seeing him, and, holding out his hand, he greeted her most cordially.

She seemed more lovely than ever to him, though her face was very sad, and worn, and pale, while of course her deep mourning added to the delicacy of her complexion.

He had not thought of seeing her in black, and it gave him an uncomfortable sensation; it reminded him unpleasantly of Wil, and his treachery toward him, and it is never agreeable to be obliged to recall one’s own meanness.

“When did you return?” Lady Elaine inquired, reading his face with clear, keen eyes, and finding there something to dislike more than ever.

“Last week,” he answered.

“And Arley--your wife?”

“I have no wife,” he returned, briefly, and with darkening face.

“Mr. Paxton! Surely Arley has not died, and the sad news kept from me!” cried the fair girl, in a breathless tone, and putting out her hand to steady herself against the wall.

“No, she is living, and is well--or was, the last I knew,” Philip said, while his own lips were not quite steady, “but--Lady Elaine, there has been a--a separation.”

His companion gave him another glance of surprise, mingled with horror.

She was too deeply moved--too astounded to speak one word in reply to this dreadful intelligence.

“You look surprised,” Philip said, feeling very uncomfortable beneath those searching blue eyes, “and I do not wonder; we have had a sad time since leaving England, but--I do not like to speak of it here,” he added, glancing around as if he feared that some one might overhear them. “May I come and tell you about it this evening?”

“Yes, you may come,” Lady Elaine returned, and then with a dazed, wondering look on her fair face, she bowed, left him, and went up to her room.

“What can it mean, and where is my poor Arley?” she asked herself, over and over again.

Philip Paxton was well pleased with the permission she had given him. She had granted it unhesitatingly, and he accepted it as a good omen, while the expression of pleasure with which she had greeted him lingered in his memory all day.

He had learned almost immediately upon his return that the Hamiltons were at the Langham, and Lady Elaine with them, and he had haunted the place every day, hoping to encounter Sir Anthony, and get an invitation to call, as he had not quite courage sufficient to do so without one.

He presented himself at the door on this evening as early as etiquette would permit, and was delighted to find Lady Elaine alone.

“A great sorrow has come to you since I last saw you,” he said, as he greeted her, and holding her hand a moment longer than was necessary, while he looked down into her eyes with an expression of tender respect and sympathy.

She drew back from him, lines of pain settling about her sweet mouth, her face growing almost ghastly with the effort she made for composure. She merely bowed her head in token of assent; her grief was still too fresh to admit of her speaking of Wil with any degree of calmness, while she felt that she could not discuss her sorrow with him under any circumstances.

She motioned him to a seat, and then sat down near him.

“Where did you leave Arley?” she asked, anxious to learn the fate of her friend.

“I did not leave her at all--she left me at Madrid, Spain, and I have not seen her since,” he answered, with compressed lips.

Lady Elaine lifted her bright head with a quick, almost impatient motion at this, and bent a keen, inquiring glance upon him, as if to warn him that she did not mean to believe anything wrong of her friend if she could help it.

“Arley and I were never suited to each other,” Philip resumed, with a regretful sigh, “and it was a great mistake that we were ever married. We both found that out before a month had passed.”

“Why did Arley leave you?” Lady Elaine asked, with those penetrating eyes still fixed upon his face.

It was exceeding uncomfortable; he wished she would not look at him so, it made it very difficult for him to tell his story in the way he had planned to.

“Because”--he hesitated as if pained and embarrassed to be obliged to speak of Arley in any such way, “because of my poverty. Perhaps you do not know that I lost very heavily about the time of our marriage, but such is the fact, and that misfortune, together with the loss of Arley’s money, made things very awkward for me. Of course, crippled as I was, I could not afford to give her all the luxuries to which she had been accustomed, nor gratify every extravagant whim. We had some words about it in Paris first, and matters grew worse and worse until they finally reached a climax in Madrid. There she utterly refused to live with me in the way we were living, and left me in a passion.”

Still Lady Elaine’s eyes rested upon his face, as if she doubted his false tongue and longed to read the hidden secrets of his heart.

“Pray how could such a step improve her condition, if she had no means of her own to live upon?” she asked.

“You are her friend. I do not like to pain you by talking against her, especially when she is absent, and cannot defend herself,” Philip returned, with an appearance of honor, though he averted his guilty eyes and a dark flush mounted his brow. “Perhaps,” he added, after a pause, “I had better leave all explanations until she returns--if she ever does. I can only say that she conducted herself in such a manner that I felt justified in applying to the court of Madrid for a divorce.”

“Mr. Paxton! did you do that?” Lady Elaine asked, her eyes beginning to flash.

“I did,” he replied, firmly, “and Arley, I afterward discovered, left Madrid the very day that the court rendered its verdict, and in company with a young Englishman who had acted as her companion in the case, and with whom she was upon terms of intimacy.”

“But what did she do that you should feel justified in adopting such extreme measures?” Lady Elaine persisted in a constrained tone, while a small red spot began to burn upon either cheek.

“She deserted me in the first place, and then upon watching her I discovered that she made appointments with a person in Madrid, and received money from him--you asked how she procured means for her support--while her intimacy with this Englishman capped the climax.”

Lady Elaine arose; she would listen to nothing more.

“Mr. Paxton,” she began, coldly, “I believe I know Arley more intimately than almost any one else, for a very tender friendship sprang up between us while we were at Hazelmere; but, in spite of your apparently criminating facts, I cannot believe her to be guilty of the wrong of which you accuse her. I know that Arley was true to the core--that she was pure and honorable in every thought; I know, too, that she loved you, with a deep and tender love, at the time of your marriage--she confessed it to me when I questioned her, fearing for her happiness.”

“Fearing for her happiness!” interrupted Philip, with well-assumed surprise, though he knew well enough what she meant.

“Yes, after what had passed between you and me,” Lady Elaine went on, with burning cheeks, “and then learning of your pecuniary troubles, I could not help attributing an unworthy motive to you when you sought an engagement with Arley so soon. So I questioned her very earnestly, and had she not betrayed so deep and unmistakable an affection for you, I should have felt it my duty to tell her of your previous proposals to me, for I loved her too dearly to be willing that she should be won just for her money.”

“Lady Elaine! surely you cannot mean to imply that I----” Philip began in an indignant tone, but she stopped him with a motion of her hand, while her lips curled slightly, as she continued:

“There is an old saying that ‘a man is supposed to be innocent until he is proven guilty.’ What you have told me about Arley is dreadful, but it is simply impossible for me to believe her to be anything save a good and noble woman, without more positive proof than you bring me. The very fact of the stand which she took regarding Ina Wentworth and the fortune which she had always believed to be hers, goes to show how sensitive she was about committing any wrong--how strictly conscientious she was upon every point, and I cannot think that she would prove false to her solemn vows to you. Mr. Paxton, I am afraid you have done Arley a great wrong by obtaining this divorce.”

Philip Paxton’s eyes flashed beneath his drooping lids.

He had intended to convey the impression, if he could do so, without telling a downright falsehood, that he had succeeded in obtaining a divorce, and it seemed that she had understood it so.

He had been fearfully disappointed and angry at failing in this scheme, and if ever a poor man was heartily cursed, Sir Charles Herbert had been for his interference, though Philip had no idea who he was.

He had not wished to bring the matter into English courts on account of the scandal which it would create, but there was no help for it now, if he desired to be free; and he had determined to set about it immediately, and while the suit was pending he meant to make the most of his time and win Lady Elaine if possible, although her attitude toward him, in this his first interview with her, was anything but encouraging.