The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. A Novel

Lizzie did so in a graphic manner; the portrait she presented was truthful and unmistakable. Every word that was being uttered was carrying conviction to the Duchess's soul.

"When he left the house," said Mrs. Lenoir, "Charlie and you-Charlie and Lizzie are engaged, my dear, and will soon be married," – this to the Duchess-"Charlie and you were in the passage, and he passed you."

"Yes."

"Charlie, you saw his face?"

"I did, ma'am."

"And recognised it?"

"As sure as anything's sure, though a good many years have gone by since I saw it last."

"Was his name Temple?"

"Not by a long way."

"Tell me his name again, Charlie."

"Ned Chester his name was, and is," added Charlie positively.

At the mention of the name a shudder passed through the Duchess's frame.

"What character did he bear when you knew him?"

"A precious bad one; not to put too fine a point upon it, he was a thief."

"That will do, Charlie. Good night; good night, Lizzie."

"Good night, Mrs. Lenoir, God bless you."

"Thank you, my dears."

In another moment Mrs. Lenoir and the Duchess were again alone.

The questions had been asked by Mrs. Lenoir with the distinct purpose of convincing the Duchess that she was acting in good faith and for the girl's good. She felt that she was on her trial, as it were, and out of the teachings of her own sad experience she gathered wisdom to act in such a way as to win confidence. On the Duchess the effect produced was convincing, so far as the man whose attention she had accepted was concerned; but a dual process of thought was working in her mind-one associated with the lover who would have betrayed her, the other associated with the woman who had stepped between her and her peril.

"My dear," said Mrs. Lenoir, after an interval of silence, during which the Duchess had not raised her head, and Mrs. Lenoir was strengthening herself for the coming trial, "will you give me what information you can concerning yourself which will help to guide us both in this sad hour?"

A pressure of her fingers answered her in the affirmative.

"Keep your eyes from me till I bid you rise," continued Mrs. Lenoir, with heaving bosom. "Where do you live?"

"In Rosemary Lane."

"Have you lived all your life there?"

"Since I was a very little child."

"You were not born there?"

"Oh, no; I do not know where I was born-" Mrs. Lenoir's eyes wandered to the window which shut out the night. She could not see it, but she felt that the snow was falling; "and," said the Duchess in a faltering voice, "I cannot remember seeing the face of my mother."

"Tell me all you know, my dear; conceal nothing from me."

In broken tones the girl told every particular of her history, from her introduction into Rosemary Lane, as the incident had been related to her by Seth Dumbrick, to the present and first great trial in life.

"Look up, my dear."

The Duchess raised her eyes, almost blinded with tears. Mrs. Lenoir tenderly wiped them away, and placed in the girl's hand the miniature portrait of herself, painted in her younger and happier days.

"It is like me," murmured the girl.

"It is my picture when I was your age." She sank to her knees by the side of the Duchess. "At this time and in this place my story is too long to tell. You shall learn all by-and-by, when we are safe. I had a child-a daughter, born on such a night as this, in sorrow and tribulation. My memory is too treacherous, and the long and severe illness I passed through was too terrible in its effects upon me, to enable me to recall the circumstances of that period of my life. But I had my child, and she drew life from my breast, and brought gleams of happiness to my troubled soul. I have no recollection how long a time passed, till a deep darkness fell upon me; but when I recovered, and my reason was restored to me, I was told that my child was dead. I had no power to prove that it was false; I was weak, friendless, penniless, and I wandered into the world solitary and alone. But throughout all my weary and sorrowful life, a voice-God's voice-never ceased whispering to me that my child was alive, and that I should one day meet her, and clasp her to my heart! In this hope alone I have lived; but for this hope I should have died long years ago. Heaven has fulfilled its promise, and has brought you to my arms. I look into your face, and I see the face of my child; I listen to your voice, and I hear the voice of my child! God would not deceive me! In time to come, when you have heard my story, we will, if you decide that it shall be so, seek for worldly proof. I think I see the way to it, and if it is possible it shall be found."

She rose from her knees, and standing apart from the wondering weeping girl, said, in a low voice, between her sobs:

"In my youth I was wronged. I was innocent, as God is my judge! My fault was, that I trusted and believed; that I, a young girl inexperienced in the world's hard ways, listened to the vows of a man, whom I loved with all my soul's strength; whom I believed in as I believe in Eternal justice! That was my sin. I have been bitterly punished; no kiss of love, no word of affection that I could receive as truly my right, has been bestowed upon me since I was robbed of my child. I have been in darkness for years; I am in darkness now, waiting for the light to shine upon my soul!"

It came. Tender arms stole about her neck, loving lips were pressed to hers. In an agony of joy she clasped the girl to her bosom, and wept over her. For only a few moments did she allow herself the bliss of this reunion. She looked, affrighted, to a clock on the mantelpiece.

"At what time did that man say he would be here to meet us?" she asked in a hurried whisper.

"At eleven o'clock," was the whispered reply.

"It wants but five minutes to the hour. We must go, child; we must fly from this place. No breath of suspicion must attach itself to my child's good name. Come-quickly, quickly!"

The Duchess allowed Mrs. Lenoir to put on her hat and cloak, and before the hour struck they were in the street, hastening through the snow.

Whither? She knew not. But fate was directing her steps.

CHAPTER XXIX

They did not escape unobserved, and within a short time of their departure from the hotel, were being tracked by friend and foe. The ostler attached to the hotel saw the woman stealing away, and noted the direction they took; and when Ned Chester drove to the "Empire" and heard with dismay of the flight, the ostler turned an honest penny by directing him on their road. He turned more than one honest penny on this-to him-fortunate night. Richards, who had made himself fully acquainted with Ned's movements, arrived at the hotel, in company with Arthur Temple, a few minutes after the runaway thief left it, and had no difficulty in obtaining the information he required.

"Two birds with one stone, sir," he said to Arthur; "we shall catch the thief and save the girl."

"We may be too late if we go afoot," said Arthur; "every moment is precious. Now, my man," to the ostler, "your fastest horse and your lightest trap. A guinea for yourself if they are ready without delay; another guinea if we overtake the persons we are after."

"I'll earn them both, sir," cried the ostler, running to the stable door. "You go into the hotel and speak to the missis."

No sooner said than done. Before the horse was harnessed, the landlady had been satisfied.

"My name is Temple," said Arthur to her in a heat, after the first words of explanation. "Here is my card, and here is some money as a guarantee. It is a matter of life and death, and the safety of an innocent girl hangs upon the moments."

His excitement communicated itself to the landlady, who was won by his good looks and his enthusiasm, and she herself ran out to expedite the matter. They were soon on the road, but not soon enough to prevent Ned Chester from having more than a fair start of them.

Richards, who held the reins, needed no such incentive to put on the best speed as his young master's impatience unremittingly provided. As rapidly as possible the horse ploughed its way through the heavy snow. Their course lay beyond the railway station, and as they passed it the few passengers by a train which had just arrived were emerging from the door. To Arthur Temple's surprise Richards, whose lynx eyes were watching every object, suddenly pulled up in the middle of the road.