“I must be dreaming! It is a land of visions here; I have lost control over my own senses;” said Hardcastle, aloud, as he pressed forward to get a nearer view of what seemed to him an illusion. Two figures at such a time, in such a scene of loneliness and solitude! Nearer and nearer he drew. What did he see? Breathless and nerveless he leaned forward deprived alike of speech and power. Mountains, crags and sunlight swam before his eyes and faded away into mist, while the words of Mr. Warden, in the study of Harleyford, rang and echoed in his ears. “I can see her now—see her as she stood the first day I saw her in the lonely mountain country. Her feet on the black-red lava, the glowing sunset behind her head, her rich dark beauty flashing back every gold and crimson ray. The long white robe she wore, and the dark-faced nurse by her side.” There, straight in front of him, was the literal realization of the picture in all its details, for there, awestruck and silent as himself, stood Amy Warden and Isola the nurse!
XII
The time passed slowly and heavily to Mr. Warden during Lord Hardcastle’s absence. The Docteur Lemoine arrived in due course, the ribbon of the Legion of Honour fastened in his buttonhole, and a general air of got-up-for-the-occasion about him. It was not often, indeed, that he had a patient of Mr. Warden’s standing to attend. His experiences, as a rule, were limited to the dying beds of the simple peasantry about him, for it is not often that a Cevenol mountaineer calls in the aid of a doctor—rarely, indeed, until the patient is beyond the hope of recovery.
He looked inquiringly at Mr. Warden, and was proceeding to ask him a multitude of questions, when the latter stopped him. “My friend,” he said, “I shall be your patient for such a very short time that it is really not worth while for you to take a great deal of trouble about me. My disease is mental, not bodily, and what I most require is rest and quiet. What you want to know you must find out from your own observation, and I will promise to take any remedy you may prescribe.”
“But,” expostulated the doctor, “I have been called in to attend M’sieur, who I am told is suffering. What will you? There are questions I must ask. My profession—”
“Doctor Lemoine,” again interrupted Mr. Warden, “what I wish is that you should stay in the house in case of need till my friend returns. The people here will make you very comfortable, and you can come into my room and look at me as often as you like; only, I beg, do not trouble me with any questions.”
Then the doctor bowed and withdrew, and was compelled to content himself with questioning the landlord and his wife of their strange guest, and in his broad mountain patois declared again and again that such treatment was unheard of, incredible; that if he had not seen death itself written on the stranger’s features he could not have supported such an insult.
So the time wore slowly away; the afternoon faded into evening, and Mr. Warden retired early to rest, carefully attended by the kindhearted innkeeper.
The next morning rose grey and misty, and Mr. Warden could not repress a feeling of anxiety for his young friend traversing the (to him) unfamiliar mountain paths. What if he had missed his way and had been benighted in some lonely, unfrequented road. What if Isola’s people had proved treacherous, and looking upon him as his (Mr. Warden’s) emissary, had maltreated or perhaps murdered him! A hundred such suppositions rushed through his brain, as weak and feverish he lay on his couch in his sitting-room.
The Docteur Lemoine came in from time to time, entreating him to calm himself, and prescribing tonics or light stimulants.
Towards noon the mist began to lift, but still no sign of Lord Hardcastle. Two, three, four, five o’clock passed, and Mr. Warden started to his feet in a state of feverish excitement. “I can bear this no longer,” he said, ringing the bell violently. “We must at once organize a searching party. Doctor, don’t stand there gazing at me; we may want your help now; we have delayed too long as it is!”
As he spoke the door opened, and Lord Hardcastle slowly and quietly entered the room. His face was very pale, but a look had come into his eyes, a quiet triumphant sort of look, which seemed to say plainly “we have fought a good fight and have conquered at last.”
“Thank Heaven, Hardcastle, you are safe! What has happened? Tell me quickly, for I can see you have something to tell me,” said Mr. Warden, sinking back once more on to his couch.
“Yes, much has happened, Mr. Warden, and I have a great deal to tell you. But you must nerve yourself to bear the news, and prepare to receive a great surprise. Doctor, where are your tonics? we shall want them just now, and then, I hope and trust, get rid of them all forever!”
“Hardcastle, Hardcastle! speak out I implore you; this is simply torture; you speak as if you had some good news to tell. Great Heavens, what good news can there be for me, with wife and daughter both dead and buried in darkness and disgrace!”
“Yes, Mr. Warden, I will speak out plainly,” replied Lord Hardcastle calmly. “Are you sure both wife and daughter are dead and buried? Listen to me. When Isola came to you and told you your wife was dead, she told you a lie. This she was ordered to do by your wife, who had soon wearied of her life of sin and returned with her to these mountains. Thoroughly repentant, and anxious to repair the wrong she had done you, she
