Chapter XXXV: The Good Samaritan

“When would you like to go home?” Lady Herbert asked, after Lady Elaine’s letter had been discussed upon all its points, and seeing that Arley appeared restless and eager.

“At once--to-morrow; for see!” pointing to the date, “this letter has been more than three months coming to me.”

“True; I am very sorry it should have been so delayed; but we will make all possible haste now,” Lady Herbert returned, with the utmost kindness.

“Oh, do not let me disarrange your plans!” Arley exclaimed, quickly. “I can go alone--the journey from Paris to Calais is so direct; while it will not be very much to cross the Channel to Dover, and then go up to London. You have been so kind and have done so much for me that I do not feel right to trespass upon you any more.”

“Hush, dear,” said her companion, reprovingly, “do not ever use that word to me again; you have never ‘trespassed;’ but I am, too, ready to go home--I am weary of roving; besides,” she added, with a playful smile, “my curiosity is on the _qui vive_--I want to learn this precious secret, too, so that I may rejoice with you. Those words, ‘lady born,’ look very nice on paper, but I am so glad that you have that assurance, although I have been confident of it from the hour that I first saw you, and you have proved yourself a lady, in every sense of the word, during the time that you have been with me, and I have grown to love you very dearly.”

Lady Herbert bent forward as she concluded, and kissed Arley tenderly upon her lips; while she, with something of her old impulsiveness, threw her arms around her neck and heartily returned the caress.

Sir Charles appeared as delighted with the news as his mother had been, and eagerly seconded her proposal to return immediately to England; and it was therefore arranged that they should leave Paris the next morning.

Miss McAllister received the wanderer with open arms.

Arley had telegraphed, as soon as she reached Dover, that she should be home in a few hours, therefore they were looking for her.

“My darling, how we have missed you!” the old lady said, tenderly, as she folded her close in her arms, and tried not to notice the sad change in the originally bright face, while she did not express the least surprise that she had come back to her alone.

But her keen glance had detected trouble the moment she had looked into her eyes. Besides, her telegram had read: “I shall be home this evening,” and she had seemed to realize instinctively that something was very much amiss.

Nothing could have been sweeter or more winning and affectionate than Ina Wentworth’s greeting.

“We are so glad to have you back once more,” she had said, taking both Arley’s hands, and kissing her fondly, as if “having her back” meant as much to her as it did to her aunt, and treating her more like a loved sister rather than like an acquaintance of a few hours.

Arley felt a glow of affection for her instantly, while she thought the gentle girl was just as lovely as she could be.

It seemed as if she had been undergoing some refining process during the last two years, which had rendered her beauty more delicate and her manners more winning.

She had been charmed with her from the first moment of their meeting, and there was not the slightest feeling of envy or bitterness in her heart toward her for having so unceremoniously stepped into the home and fortune which for so many years she had regarded as hers; instead, she began immediately to love her with an affection almost equal to that which she had entertained for Miss McAllister.

After they had taken tea they led her upstairs.

“You must rest,” Miss McAllister said, with an anxious look at the face, which was fast losing the color which excitement had for a time lent it; “it is a hard journey from Paris to London direct, and I know you are weary.”

And Arley was glad to obey; but her heart quickened its pulsations as they passed down the long corridor and finally stopped at the door of her old room.

Ina threw it open, and Arley uttered an exclamation as she saw that everything within was exactly as she had left it--all the little knickknacks and treasures which she had gathered there as a girl were in their accustomed places, while it seemed as if not even the fold of a curtain had been disturbed, it was all so unchanged.

There was even an old dressing-gown which had been left behind because a newer and more dainty one had been provided for the bride, hanging over the back of a chair, and a pair of her very own slippers, with tiny red velvet bows on the toes, which she remembered so well, were set before the fire in the grate to warm her feet.

It was all so natural and homelike that a sense of content and delight filled her heart; but the next moment she turned to Ina, a vivid flush on her cheek, a questioning look in her eyes.

The young girl broke into a low, sweet laugh, and there was a peculiar charm in it to the returned wanderer.

“You did not suppose I would ever occupy these rooms, did you?” she asked, reading Arley’s thought at once. “No, indeed; I begged auntie to let me have the ones opposite hers, and reserve these just as you had left them, so that whenever you could spare us time for a little visit you would feel as if you had got into your own corner in the home-nest again. We have done nothing to them except to freshen them up for you; besides,” she added, as she saw that Arley looked troubled and the tears were gathering in her eyes, “these windows have a southern prospect, while I am particularly fond of a western view, where I can have a glorious sunset once in a while, as you know I can have from those in the blue room.

“Now, auntie,” she continued, with ready tact, seeing that Arley was almost ready to break down, and unable to utter a word of appreciation or thanks, “I am going to run down and send Sarah up to wait upon Arley just as she used to, and you can come when you are ready. Good-night, dear,” and bending forward, she kissed Arley, and then quickly left the room.

But she did not mean to send Sarah, nor allow any one else to go up into that chamber for a good while to come.

She meant to let Arley weep out her full heart uninterrupted, and unburden all her sorrow to kind, sympathetic Miss McAllister; she knew that it would have to come sooner or later, and that it would do her good, so the quicker the better.

And the door had scarcely closed after her, when the poor child’s self-possession forsook her entirely, and, throwing herself into Miss McAllister’s arms in a perfect abandonment of grief, she cried out:

“Auntie! auntie! I see by your kind, sorry eyes that you almost know what I have to tell you--my story of sorrow and shame, of my ruined life, my miserable, wretched mistake.”

“Hush, dear,” the old lady whispered, soothingly, while she folded her close to her; “you must not excite yourself thus or you will be ill. Yes, I knew that something was wrong with you, but just what I could not imagine. Where is Philip--your husband--Arley?”

“Oh, auntie, I don’t know,” and the sob that followed these words was pitiful to hear.

“You don’t know!” repeated Miss McAllister, in a sort of stupid amaze.

“No. I have not seen him for almost a year.”

“Arley!” was the astonished, almost stern ejaculation, in reply to this dreadful statement.

“No, auntie; and what is more I never wish to see him again,” Arley returned, somewhat spiritedly.

“My child, tell me all about it,” Miss McAllister commanded, when at length she could get her breath after the shock which Arley’s revelation had given her.

And she obeyed, beginning with what had transpired upon her wedding day, and giving a truthful account of all that she had suffered from the man who should have been a faithful provider and a tender protector.

The old lady’s face grew pale and stern as she listened, and she thanked the fates that she had not made known her intentions regarding the future disposition of her property before the pair left home.

She had resolved to settle a handsome income on Arley, after seeing how nobly she had borne herself upon learning that she was not Captain Wentworth’s child; she had been almost tempted to do it when she had sent for Mr. Holley to make over her fortune to Ina; but she rejoiced now that she had not done so, for she believed that Philip would have continued to live in idleness, and perhaps ill-treated Arley until this day.

Miss McAllister then told Arley how Lady Elaine had come to her to learn the name of the vessel in which she had been sent home from India; how she had asked for something that she had worn at that time, and then taken away the little shoes and stockings, and emerald ring, hoping that they might aid her in her search.

“I am afraid that I have no father and mother living. I am afraid there will be no one to own and love me in my new position, whatever that may be; for if there had been she would never have kept this secret to herself. She would have been in duty bound to tell my relatives, and they would naturally have come to you to learn more about me,” Arley said, somewhat dejectedly.

“You will have just as many to love you as you have always had, even if you find no new relatives,” Miss McAllister replied, kissing her tenderly. “You still belong to me, and will always be bound to me by the deep love which we have for each other, and your home shall henceforth be here, just the same as it used to be, and we will try to make you forget these last two years that have been so fraught with unhappiness to you. We will be as happy as possible while we are spared to each other; and when I am gone, perhaps you and Ina will love each other well enough to keep on in the old home together----”

Arley stopped those aged lips, which were tremulous with emotion, with a soft touch of her fingers.

“Auntie,” she said, appealingly, “don’t speak of anything like that to-night. I have but just got home to you, and I do not want to think of another parting.”

“Oh!” she continued, with a fond look, while she leaned against Miss McAllister’s shoulder, “I believe I never loved you half as well in the old days as I do now--at least, I did not realize it then as now. And how kind it was of you and Ina to keep my rooms for me! It gives me such a restful, peaceful feeling to be here once more. I am like a tired child who has been lost for a long time and then found and carried back to its father’s house.”

“Dear child! and we are so glad to have you here!” murmured Miss McAllister, with fast-falling tears.

“I believe you are,” was the contented response, “and Ina, too. How lovely she is!”

“She is, indeed in both form and spirit; she has done everything since you went away to fill your place; she learned from the servants all that you were accustomed to do for me, and it has been really touching to see how faithful she has been in the performance of every duty.”

“I am so glad; if she had been disagreeable or unlovely I am afraid I should have found it hard to forgive her for stepping so unceremoniously into my place,” Arley said, with a little flash of her old spirit.

“But,” she added, a moment later, “I believe I am very impatient. I can hardly wait for morning to come, I am so anxious to learn the mysterious secret of my identity. Where is Elaine stopping?”

“At the Langham. Sir Anthony came to London intending to remain only a short time, or until his business was completed; but Lady Hamilton has enjoyed the excitement of the city and seems to dread going back to Hazelmere, where she misses her son so much, so they have remained here until now. I will send William to tell Lady Elaine of your arrival the first thing in the morning, for you shall not be kept in suspense a moment longer than is absolutely necessary.”

“Thank you, auntie. Poor Elaine! what trouble she has had since I went away,” Arley sighed, “how much sorrow there is in the world.”

“That is true, dear,” gravely returned Miss McAllister, “but sometimes our greatest blessings grow out of our heaviest sorrows.”