“My wife not dead,” repeated Mr. Warden slowly, as though scarcely able to grasp the fact. “Where is she Hardcastle? Take me to her or bring her to me! my poor, poor Aimée! Is she waiting for my forgiveness before she will come?”
“I did not say that your wife was living now, Mr. Warden; she died about two months since. It is a sad, sad story,” he spoke very slowly now, pausing long between each sentence. “In England, one stormy night in September, we will pray that she lost her footing in the dark, and fell into the swollen stream; she lies buried in Harleyford churchyard.”
Then Mr. Warden sprang to his feet and threw up his arms with an exceeding bitter cry.
“My Aimée, my poor Aimée! I see it all now, it was she who stood outside the window in the rain and tempest. No, no, Hardcastle, you cannot blind my eyes. There was no accidental slipping into the dark river, she could not bear the sight of my love and devotion to another woman, and in her madness and jealousy threw away her life.”
“Let us rather hope, Mr. Warden,” said Lord Hardcastle gravely, “that the same feeling of penitence and self-sacrifice which induced her long years since to send you a fictitious message of her death, led her to render the fiction a reality in order to save you from the disgrace of an exposure of your sorrows, and that you might live in peace with the one whom you had chosen.”
Mr. Warden made no reply, he sunk back in a chair and covered his face with both hands.
Then the doctor interposed; he had been gazing in amazement from one to the other, totally unable to understand their English, yet thoroughly comprehending that something startling and wonderful, and of great importance to Mr. Warden, had occurred.
“See how M’sieur suffers,” he said angrily, addressing Lord Hardcastle, “he cannot sustain any more such news. Cannot Milord wait until tomorrow for the rest which must be said?” Then he handed to Mr. Warden a glass of wine.
“There is no reason why I should wait until tomorrow,” replied Hardcastle, speaking loudly to attract Mr. Warden’s attention, “he has heard the worst now, all that remains to be told is good news.”
“Good news!” exclaimed Mr. Warden, “what good news can there be for me? My wife, my daughter!—Ah! my other Amy, have you heard of her, Hardcastle? Tell me quickly what you know, where is she, living or dead?”
“I have heard of her, I have seen her, I have even spoken with her. Mr. Warden! can you bear good news, the best of news? Your daughter Amy is in this house now, and waiting only for a word from you—” He paused, for Mr. Warden once more risen to his feet, had suddenly staggered and fallen back senseless in his chair.
Now the little doctor took the lead—
“I have obeyed Milord too long, in resting here so tranquilly. You must follow my orders now,” he said, severely and dictatorially.
“Willingly,” replied Lord Hardcastle, as he assisted to remove Mr. Warden to a couch. “I only stipulate one thing, and that is, that when my friend opens his eyes they shall rest first on the being he loves best in the world, his only daughter.”
And they did so rest. Amy crept noiselessly into the room, paler, thinner, graver than in the old days, and kneeling by her father’s side, took his hand in hers.
The movement aroused him. He opened his eyes, and they rested full on her face. Amy controlled herself admirably.
“Papa, dear,” she said, “you must not speak till I give you permission; I am going to turn both doctor and nurse (with a smile at Hardcastle) out of office, and endeavour to cure you myself.”
“I am cured already,” replied Mr. Warden, as he held his daughter tightly clasped in his arms, “you are only just in time, Amy; a few more days’ delay, and you would have been indeed an orphan,” then he checked himself. How much did his daughter know? How should he tell her what she must be told?
“Miss Warden knows all she need know,” said Lord Hardcastle, rightly interpreting his thoughts. “She has also, on her part, very much to tell you, but I do implore you wait at least for a day before you talk over the sad events of the past few months.”
He spoke earnestly, and as he did so laid his hand entreatingly on Mr. Warden’s arm, which still encircled Amy’s waist. Then, for the first time, Amy saw glittering on his little finger her own ruby ring.
“Papa, dear,” she exclaimed in her old, quick, imperious manner, “will you ask Lord Hardcastle what right he has to wear a ring of mine?”
“I have no right whatever to do so, Miss Warden,” said Hardcastle gravely. Then he drew the ring from his finger, and handing it to her with a low bow, left the room.
XIII
At this time Mr. Warden received his first packet of English letters from the poste restante at Le Puy.
Among others there was one from Inspector Hill, which ran as follows:—
“Scotland Yard,
“Nov. 20th.“Sir—
“I think it right you should be informed of certain facts which have come to my knowledge respecting some jewellery belonging to Miss Warden, viz., a diamond necklace, earrings, and brooch, which have already been restored to you through Mr. Varley, and an antique ruby ring which Miss Warden was supposed to have worn the day she left home, but which in reality was left by her on her
