“No, to both your questions. Amy was told her mother was dead, as far as she could be made to understand what that was; but her fascinating image was so deeply rooted in the child’s mind, that I do not believe she ever forgot her. Later on—but no, I will not anticipate, but will tell you in proper order each successive event.
“When I came to my senses, I fully realized the depth of my misery, and at once took measures to ascertain if my wife had really done as she threatened. Alas! it was only too easily ascertained—the shamelessness of her conduct was absolutely appalling. Stricken to the heart, though I was, I made no effort to win her back; ‘she has ceased to love me, let her go,’ was the one thought in my mind, and henceforth my little Amy would have all my love and care.
“I hastened to take her to a place where her mother’s name and sin would be unknown. So I left the Haute Loire province, and settled at St. Sauveur, near Bordeaux. There I engaged an excellent English governess for her (the lady who afterwards became my wife) and by study and incessant occupation endeavoured to divert my thoughts.
“About a year after we had been at St. Sauveur, I was startled one morning by the appearance of Isola standing at the gate. My first thought was that she had come to me with a message of penitence from my wife. Then, however, noticing she was clad in deep mourning, I guessed she had far different tidings to bring.
“ ‘Your mistress is dead,’ I asked, at once anticipating the worst. She bowed her head.
“ ‘Tell me everything, Isola,’ I gasped, hoping still there might be some message of love or repentance for me.
“ ‘There is nothing to tell,’ she replied coldly, ‘she is dead, that is all.’
“ ‘But where, when, how?’ I insisted, my soul thirsting and hungering after my wife.
“ ‘She took cold, she would not take care, and so she died, that is all,’ was the reply.
“ ‘And not a word or message for me, or for her daughter?’
“Then the woman laughed a harsh scornful laugh.
“ ‘What would Monsieur have? Don Josef took care of her, and gave her all she wanted. He was by her side when she died, and held her in his arms.’
“I had no heart to ask more; and when Isola turned her back on me without another word or salutation of any sort, I did not seek to detain her. The least sign of penitence would have brought back my old love for my wife, but to die thus, as she had lived, in sin, was the bitterest blow of all.
“My great fear at this time was lest Amy should know, by some means, any part of this terrible story. I endeavoured, and successfully, to confuse her infant mind, by constantly speaking of her mother as her governess, and the thought soon suggested itself to me, that if she had another mother given to her, the recollection of the first would be completely obliterated. Accordingly, some short time after Aimée’s death, I married my second wife. The result you know, a life of peace and comparative happiness until now.”
Again Mr. Warden paused, his calmness was evidently failing him, and it was with increased effort and difficulty that he finished his narration.
“Soon after my second marriage,” he continued, “I left St. Sauveur, hoping still farther to blot the recollection of her early days from Amy’s young mind. To a certain extent I believe I succeeded; I imagined I had quite done so, when one day, some two years ago, to my great surprise, she suddenly asked me—
“ ‘Papa, dear, tell me about that beautiful lady who used to play with me when I was a child; wasn’t she my very own mamma?’
“Then it was I told my little daughter the first and only lie I ever uttered, and assured her that that beautiful lady was her governess, and that Mrs. Warden was her very own mamma.
“ ‘Is that the truth, papa?’ asked Amy, looking up into my face; and again I assured her that was the truth. ‘Then,’ said the child, persistently, ‘I love the governess better than my own mamma, for she used to kiss and play with me, and hold me in her arms, but this mamma only does embroidery, and receives visitors all day.’ The words cut me to the heart; there never was much affection between Amy and her stepmother, their characters were so opposite, and every year the want of sympathy between them became more and more apparent. Not one of my friends and relatives knew of my second marriage; they imagined Mrs. Warden to be my first and only wife, and Mrs. Warden, without any near relatives, found no difficulty in concealing the fact that she had married a widower. We had lived such a completely isolated life among the French peasantry, that there was no fear of Amy ever hearing her mother spoken of in England; and yet, after all these precautions, here was nature asserting herself in this extraordinary manner.” Then Mr. Warden broke off abruptly. “Lord Hardcastle, I can tell you no more of this sad story. What it has cost me to talk to you thus, you will never know; let us not speak on the subject again.”
“How can I thank you, Mr. Warden?” exclaimed Hardcastle earnestly, springing forward, and clasping Mr. Warden’s hand, “how can I ever thank you for this proof of your confidence in me? For weeks past as I have thought and thought over this matter, like a man in a dream almost, my thoughts have ever led me back to you, as holding in your hands the solution of the mystery. I feel nearer the truth tonight than I have ever felt before. One ray of light breaks through the darkness, and we will follow where it leads.
