“From Lord Hardcastle,” replied Amy. “When I first saw my mother, as she clasped me in her arms, she said, ‘my darling, do you know the whole truth, and can you love me still?’ I, imagining she referred to your neglect and cruelty, and her impatience and flight as described by Isola, replied that I did know the whole truth, and I loved her better than ever. After this nothing more was said by either of us on the matter. It was not until Lord Hardcastle stood before me on the rocks and insisted, with his thin pale face and solemn manner, that I should hear the whole truth and then judge between my parents, that I knew what had really occurred. Papa, papa, I felt then I should hate him forever and ever for having cast down my idol from its pedestal. Yet,” she added, tearfully, “I ought to be grateful to him, too, for has he not given back to me my own dear father, and cleared away the cloud that had risen up between us?”
“Thank God for that, indeed, my child, and had it not been for him, Amy, your father would not be here talking to you now. A few more such days of grief and anxiety would have worn out the last remains of my strength. I owe Lord Hardcastle a debt I can never repay, and it pained me beyond measure the other day to hear your abrupt question as to his right to wear your ring. You must have wounded him deeply.”
“But, papa, dear, that was because he was not equal to the occasion. Some gentlemen I know, such as Mr. Varley for instance, would have said ‘if I had but the right to wear it,’ or some such polite speech. Of course I should have thought it very impertinent and great nonsense. But no one will ever accuse Lord Hardcastle of talking nonsense! He mounts his high horse immediately, gives me back my ring with scarcely a word, and with the air of an emperor walks out of the room!”
“Amy,” said Mr. Warden, after a moment’s pause, “you spoke of Frank Varley just now; do you care to know what has become of him?”
“Yes,” said Amy, looking up eagerly, “where is he, papa? What did he do when he heard I was lost? Tell me, don’t keep me waiting an instant,” she added in her old tone and manner.
“For one whole month, my child,” said Mr. Warden, carefully watching his daughter’s face, “he was brokenhearted, inconsolable, in fact all but a madman. The next,” he said this very slowly, for he was loth to strike the blow, “he was engaged to Mary Burton, and married ten days afterwards.”
A start, a shiver, a very flushed and then a very pale face, that was all, and then Amy repeated in a strangely quiet tone, “Married to Mary Burton! I remember her well, that large, fair, good-looking girl, who didn’t know how to make men look at her! We won’t talk any more today, papa. The little doctor will scold me if I keep you up late and tire you. Ah!” she said with a sigh and a look towards the mountains, “I think those little brown nuns at St. Geneviève have a far better time of it than we who stand out here in the cold and storm to fight our life’s battle!”
XV
“She was like a wild bird beating its wings against its prison bars,” said Amy, continuing her narrative a few days before they started for England. “The excitement and pleasure of seeing me had acted magically on her, so much so that I found it difficult to realize the truth of Isola’s description of her before my coming. In a day or two, however, the excitement subsided, and I became seriously alarmed. She seemed possessed by a spirit of unrest, and I began to fear for her reason. No sleep at night, no rest for one five minutes in the day. She fulfilled all her religious duties faithfully (they were not heavy ones, and the Abbess was indulgent) but every spare moment she spent with me was passed in one ceaseless moan. ‘I must see him; there will be no peace for me till I have looked at the dear face again. Help me, my child, help me!’ I knew not what to do for the best. I felt it would be useless to consult the Abbess, or even the Convent Confessor, on the matter, as their experience in the world’s ways was even less than mine, and they looked upon everything in the light of their religion. Besides, I knew there was no possibility of their allowing my mother outside the walls, even in charge of a sister, for their rules on this point were strict. What could be done? I felt, too, that you ought to be written to by someone, but by whom? Mercy to Mrs. Warden, whom I was convinced was ignorant of my mother’s existence, withheld my hand, and whom could I trust in such a matter, or to whom, indeed, could I expose my father’s guilt? I felt confident in my own mind that you would naturally guess whither I had gone, and would possibly frame some excuse for me to Mrs. Warden and others. But, O, my father, I have no words to express the agony, the absolute torture of mind I suffered at the thought of your unworthiness, of your cruelty to one whom I believed to be so noble and good as my mother.
“The difficulties, too, of my position were very great. The Abbess was kindness itself to me, and bade me stay with my mother as long as I pleased, but she was constantly asking me questions as to my family and connections, and I, not knowing how much of my mother’s story had been confided to her, was fearful of betraying my mother
