Irene Iddesleigh
sorrow underneath the lordly roof of Dunfern Mansion, I am
positively convinced, under such dangling dishonour, that never
more can this world of sin extend to me the comfort I in vain have
tried to seek.
"Awake, then, my beloved, to whom I attach not the slightest
blame, to a sense of feeling and justice, and go, I implore of
you, and cast yourself at the feet of him and beg his forgiveness,
who loved you with a love unspeakable--who severed nearly all his
self-indulgence with the instrument of intensity and hesitated not
to lavish it upon the head of her to whom I offer my last advice.
Then shall you meet the messenger--death--not with shrinking fear
(like me), but daring bravery.
"Of your present position or abode I am totally unaware, but,
dearest wife, I trust your race of penury is almost run, and that
your latter years may be crowned with Christian fortitude and
ease, and freed from the thorny dart of the wicked, in whose grave
I must soon lie unwept.
"Good bye, for ever!
From your affectionate
"OSCAR.
"Mrs. Oscar Otwell
(Address unknown)."
Folding the letter, and handing it to the officers, together with
Oscar's card and photograph--all of which would prove indispensable for
their future use--Mrs. Otwell quietly moved again to the breakfast room,
and, strange to say, finished her meal in silence.
Then turning to him in whose service she was, intimated her intention to
sail for England when the missing body would be recovered, which she
meant to bury in Greenwood Cemetery. She lingered on in eager
expectation of casting one final look at her husband, but week after
week died away without any sign of it being forthcoming, and all hope
being fled, Mrs. Otwell resolved to lose no further time in returning to
her home of nativity, in order to obey the last instructions from the
hand of Oscar Otwell, from whom she was reluctantly obliged to part in
the manner described.
Another side the picture of futurity presented for the anxious mother,
and that was to try and obtain an interview with her son, who at this
period must be a boy of some fifteen summers. Having everything in
readiness for her journey to her native land, Mrs. Otwell left Dunraven
Hall amidst torrents of sympathy and warm expressions from every member
of the family; and it was when driving past Afton Lake for the last time
on her way to the deck of the "Delwyn" that the crushed widow of Oscar
Otwell and legal wife of Sir John Dunfern was made to taste of the
unlimited sorrow of her sad career.
There she was, a stranger in a foreign land--an outcast to the society
she shone so brilliantly amongst during years that were now no more, the
fostered orphan, the adopted daughter of heiressed nothing, the wife of
devotional distinction, the illegal partner of crutchy poverty, and the
penniless widow of undeniable woe.
She was not even granted the ghostly pleasure of viewing her lover's
lifeless body, that would have ended her thoughts relative to him, at
least for a time, but as matters stood encircled in doubt, there was
nothing left save trouble and anxiety for her whose futurity must ever
be shaded.
On approaching the harbour of New York, her attention was attracted by a
tall gentleman standing not many yards distant, and being so long
familiar with his appearance, she found the object of attraction to be
no other than Lord Dilworth. Ordering the cabman to a standstill, she
popped her head out in utter astonishment, and shouted in such a strain
as to instantly attract his attention. Alighting with ardent enthusiasm
in the very midst of her troubles, she soon found herself in the arms of
Lord Dilworth, who appeared utterly dazed.
"Protector of Powers? can it be Irene? Lady Dunfern, I mean?" gasped he
in bewilderment. To which she bowed, blinded in tears, and in as few
words as possible, he related a short narrative concerning both himself
and Lady Dilworth, who had long since been dead. On hearing of the death
of the once noble mistress of Dilworth Castle, Mrs. Otwell seemed as
lifeless as a marble statue, and trying vigorously to regain strength
after such a sudden shock, she, in a few broken snatches, related her
plotted career; but misery having likewise carpeted Lord Dilworth's
floors of fate so much of late, he consequently did not seem so
astonished as imagined.
Leaving Mrs. Otwell so far as his time permitted, he pathetically took
his final farewell, and shortly after was busy pouring over his books in
Franklin Street, office No. 715, where he was employed as a clerk at
five hundred dollars a year.
On the other hand, the mighty ocean palace was steering firmly against
the clashing breakers with unobstructed speed, acting as protector and
friend to all those who entrusted themselves to its unsettled shelter.
CHAPTER XVII.
The mighty orb of gladness spreads its divine halo over many a harrowed
home--it encircles the great expanse of foreign adventure and
home-hoarded enterprise, and wields its awakening influence against the
burthened boroughs of bigotry and lightened land of liberty to a sense
of gilded surprise.
The laurels of separation were twining their oily leaves and speedily
constructing a crown for the brow of Sir John Dunfern. After returning
from Chitworth College, and ordering the last few finishing touches to
be made in his will, he grew more drooped and heartless every year, and
seemed almost indifferent to life's ploughing changes.
He felt acutely the information imparted to him by President O'Sullivan
regarding the wife he now for ever despised, and who unlawfully belonged
to Oscar Otwell. He even felt more severely the effect of such on
account of his beloved boy, who was steadily endeavouring to increase
his slight store of knowledge under the watchful eye of the most
scholarly personage of the day.
He knew ere long--owing to his present state of health, brought to such
a low ebb by the mother of his son--that he would be obliged to open to
Hugh the book of nature as it stood past and present, and instruct him
in its disagreeable pages.
The thought of opening up the past, with its stains of dissipation,
perhaps acted on the mind of Sir John more severely than the reality.
Yet he must brave himself for the trial when opportunity offered, lest
it might be too late.
The time for Hugh Dunfern's fourth summer vacation was close at hand.
The boy's genial manner, affability, and frankness, gained for him hosts
of friends at Chitworth College, and equally numerous were the sharers
in his sorrow on receiving a telegram a very short time before his
summer holidays commenced to the effect that his father had taken
suddenly ill, and asking him to delay as little as he possibly could
during his journey to Dunfern Mansion, which must commence immediately.
The poor, sorrow-stricken boy, who was deeply attached to his father,
was quite overcome with grief. Bidding "Good bye" to all his college
companions, and taking affectionate leave of his masters and President
O'Sullivan, he left the much-loved seat of learning, never more to
compete in its classes of clever instruction and high moral
bearing--never again to watch with craving eye the distribution of
letters, and rejoice on observing his father's crested envelope being
gently reached him by the President; and no more to share in the many
innocent games of youth, at some of which he was an unequalled expert.
The dull hum of voices in the hall of his home met his anxious ear on
the eve of his home-coming, and told a tale without further inquiry.
Meeting the three most eminent London physicians--namely, Doctors
Killen, Crombie, and Smiley, in the library, where they held a long
consultation, Hugh was nerved somewhat before entering the chamber of
death with words of truth regarding his father's hopeless condition;
and, on moving quietly to his father's bed, how the lad of tender years
was struck with awe at the bleached resemblance of what used to be a
rosy, healthy father!
Perceiving his son's bent and weeping form hang over him with meekest
resignation, Sir John cast aside the bedclothes, and, extending his
hand, caught firm hold of his son's. Hugh spoke not a word, by order of
the doctors, lest his father, who was now bereft of speech, would feel
the pain of not being able to reply in return.
The suffering patient lingered on in this dumb condition for six weeks,
when suddenly he regained speech partly, but only for some hours--a
great dispensation of the Almighty, no doubt, in answer to the silent
prayers of the invalid. It was first noticed by Madam Fulham, who proved
a mighty help to Sir John since his wife's flight.
On entering the chamber of sickness one morning with a new bottle of
medicine, sent direct from London, Sir John raised himself slightly on
his left elbow and made inquiry about his son.
With hurried and gladdened step was Madam Fulham seen to glide from the
presence of her master, and hasten to find Hugh, who was noticed to pace
the topmost corridor in agony.
On observing his father had regained speech after his paralytic attack
had somewhat abated, how great was his son's delight! Drawing forth a
chair to the bedside of the august patient, Hugh, quite unprepared,
received the awful intelligence of his mother's conduct and life from
the lips of the afflicted, who, in broken accents, related the tale of
trouble which for years had kept him a prisoner to its influence.
Taking his son's hand in his, Sir John Dunfern, after audibly, yet a
little indistinctly, offering up a prayer of thanks to Him Who never
overlooks the words of the just, for His great mercy in again enabling
him to regain his sense of speech, of which he so lately had been
deprived, began:--
"My much-loved and faithful son, I, your father, am now stricken down in
the middle almost of manhood, and am sensitive to the fact that a short
space of time--yea, a short space too--must inevitably elapse until I
shall be ordered from this temporary abode, which now to me seems only a
floating speck of shelter in the great ocean of time. I am more than
thankful that recovery of speech has been granted me for many reasons,
which, I fear, my strength cannot permit to be fully explained. However,
my great wish to acquaint you of my miserable married career shall,
I trust, not be barred from your knowledge by any further visitation of
Kingly Power.
"You are aware, my son, that this mansion which soon shall own me no
more has been the scene of my frolicking boyhood, my joyful manhood,
and, I must now tell you, the undying trouble of a blighted married
life.
"Your mother's name was Irene Iddesleigh, the orphan daughter,
I understand, of one Colonel Iddesleigh, of Flixton, in this county. Her
father and mother both died about the same time, leaving their daughter
absolutely unprovided for. She was taken to an orphanage at the early
age of three years, and there remained for a period of eight more, when,
through the kindness of one Lord Dilworth, of Dilworth Castle, of whose
existence I have already acquainted you, she was brought under his
charge, and remained as his adopted daughter until, unfortunately,
I brought her here as my wife.
"I cannot help informing you that she was the most beautiful and
prepossessing young lady I ever met, and, on making her acquaintance at
a ball given by Lord and Lady Dilworth, at Dilworth Castle, not far
distant, as you know, I became so intoxicated with her looks of
refinement and undoubted beauty that I never regained sobriety until she
promised to become my wife!
"The beginning of our married career was bright enough, I dare say, for