Irene Iddesleigh
some weeks only, when she grew very strange in her manner towards me.
So remarkably strange, that I was reluctantly compelled to demand an
explanation. Being satisfied with her false apologies, used as a way out
of her difficulty, I remained content. She still continued nevertheless
to maintain the same cold indifference towards me until your birth.
"Knowing that a son was born to me, who, if spared, would still keep up
the good old name of Dunfern, I became altogether a foreigner to her
past conduct, and it was only when recovering from her illness, after
your birth, that I caught hold of the trap of deception she had laid
since long before our marriage.
"She was found out to be the idolized of one man named Oscar Otwell, who
occupied the position of tutor to her during her years of adoption; and
not even did her love in return for him cease when I claimed her as my
lawful wife, but continued, so far as I know, until now!
"I was therefore obliged through her mal-practices to shut her in from
the gaze of outsiders, and also from my own. I chose Room No. 10 of this
building as her confined apartment. You were only a child then of some
two months, and, since, I have never beheld her face, which was false as
it was lovely.
"My rage was boundless on the day I ordered her into my presence in that
room, and, labouring under the passion of a jealous husband, I told her
I would confine her within its walls so long as she existed.
"Over a year passed along, every month of which I grew more and more
repentant, until the second Christmas of her seclusion, when I fully
resolved to free her once more; at the same time, never again to share
in my society or companionship.
"But, behold! the mischievous hand of her maid, Marjory Mason, whose
services I retained after her imprisonment, was busy working its way for
her escape, which she nimbly succeeded in effecting, exactly on the
morning of Christmas Day, by stealing from the room of Rachel Hyde,
Madam Fulham's predecessor, the key of her door, and thereby released
your mother. Ah! my son, from that hour my life has been a worthless
coin, the harp of hideous helplessness struck forth its tunes of
turmoil, trouble, and trial, and poured its mixed strains of life and
death so vividly in my ear, that since I have, in a measure, been only a
wanderer between their striking sounds of extremes.
"I shortly afterwards learned she took refuge in Audley Hall,
a residence on the estate of its present owner--the Marquis of Orland,
and situated some twenty miles distant, and, horrifying to relate, had
been living with Oscar Otwell!
"The dreadful news of her conduct irritated me so that I only, in my
last will and testament, bequeathed to her what would grant the ordinary
comforts of life, provided I predeceased her. This reference to her
remained until I accompanied you to Chitworth College, when President
O'Sullivan revealed to me in silent friendship the fact of which I was
wholly unaware, viz.--that she had long since sailed for America, at the
same time handing me a _New York Herald_ sent him by Otwell, and there I
beheld the announcement of her marriage with him who ruined my life, and
who has been the means of driving me into the pit of tearful tremor, out
of which I never more shall climb.
"On returning home from Chitworth College I at once blanked the
reference to her in my will, and never more wished to behold the face
that swore to me such vows of villainy; the face that blasted my
happiness for life; the mother of you, whom I now earnestly implore
never to acknowledge, and who possesses every feature she outwardly
bore.
"It may be yours to meet her face to face ere she leave this tabernacle
of torment; but, my child, for my sake avoid her cunning ways and works,
and never allow her shelter underneath this roof she dishonoured and
despised. And I trust God in His great mercy shall forgive her errors,
and grant you the blessing of a Father of Love."
Sir John Dunfern now lay back exhausted on his pillow, and muttered
quietly "Thank God."
Next morning the Angel of Death was seen to spread its snowy wings over
his wasted form, and convey the departed spirit into that region of
bliss where sorrow, sighing, sin, and suffering are cast for ever from
its rooms of glory.
Thus passed away another link of a worthy ancestral chain, who, during
his tender years of training, had been guided by the charitable
Christian example of a mother of devotion, and who was, during the
brighter battle of her son's creeping years of care and caution,
summoned before the Invisible Throne of purity, peace, and praise
everlasting, shrouded in hopes of sunshine concerning his future
happiness, which, never after his marriage, was known to twinkle in
Dunfern Mansion.
CHAPTER XVIII.
Mocking Angel! The trials of a tortured throng are naught when weighed
in the balance of future anticipations. The living sometimes learn the
touchy tricks of the traitor, the tardy, and the tempted; the dead have
evaded the flighty earthly future, and form to swell the retinue of
retired rights, the righteous school of the invisible, and the
rebellious roar of raging nothing.
The night was dark and tempestuous; the hill rather inclined to be
steep; the clouds were bathed in wrinkled furrows of vapoury smoke; the
traffic on the quiet and lonely roads surrounding Dunfern Mansion was
utterly stopped, and nature seemed a block of obstruction to the eye of
the foreigner who drudged so wearily up the slope that led to the home
of Mrs. Durand, who had been confined to bed for the past three years,
a sufferer from rheumatism.
Perceiving the faint flicker of light that occasionally flung its feeble
rays against the dim fanlight of faithful Fanny's home--the aged sister
of the late Tom Hepworth--the two-fold widowed wanderer, with trembling
step, faltered to the door of uncertain refuge, and, tapping against it
with fingers cold and stiff, on such a night of howling wind and beating
rain, asked, in weakened accents, the woman who opened to her the door,
"If she could be allowed to remain for the night?"--a request that was
granted through charity alone. After relieving herself of some outer
garments, and partaking of the slight homely fare kindly ordered by Mrs.
Durand, the widow of Oscar Otwell and Sir John Dunfern warmed herself
and dried her saturated clothing before going to bed. She had just
arrived the day previous, and hastened to take up her abode as near her
former home of exquisiteness as she could, without detection.
On extinguishing the light before retiring, and casting one glance in
the direction of the little window, the innumerable recollections of the
abundant past swept across the mind of the snowy-haired widow, and were
further augmented by the different starlike lights which shone from the
numerous windows in Dunfern Mansion, directly opposite where she lay.
A couple of days found her almost rested after such a trying night as
that on which she arrived, and observing the sharpest reticence lest she
might be known, she nerved herself to appear next day at Dunfern
Mansion, to accomplish the last wish of her late lover and husband, for
whom she ventured so much and gained so little, and particularly to try
and see her son.
The morning was warm and fine; numerous birds kept chirping outside the
little cottage of Mrs. Durand. The widow, with swollen eyes and face of
faded fear, prepared herself for the trying moment, which she was
certain of achieving. Partaking of a very slight breakfast, she told
Mrs. Durand not to expect her for dinner.
Marching down the hill's face, she soon set foot on the main road that
led direct to Dunfern Mansion. Being admitted by Nancy Bennet, a prim
old dame, who had been in charge of the lodge for the last eighteen
years, the forlorn widow, whose heart sank in despair as she slowly
walked up the great and winding avenue she once claimed, reached the
huge door through which she had been unconsciously carried by Marjory
Mason a good many years ago.
Gently ringing the bell, the door was attended by a strange face.
Reverently asking to have an interview with Sir John Dunfern, how the
death-like glare fell over the eyes of the disappointed as the footman
informed her of his demise! "Madam, if you cast your eyes thence--[here
the sturdy footman pointed to the family graveyard, lying quite
adjacent, and in which the offcast of effrontery had oftentimes
trodden]--you can with ease behold the rising symbol of death which the
young nobleman, Sir Hugh Dunfern, has lavishly and unscrupulously
erected to his fond memory."
The crushed hopes of an interview with the man she brought with head of
bowed and battered bruises, of blasted untruths and astounding actions,
to a grave of premature solitude were further crumbled to atoms in an
instant. They were driven beyond retention, never again to be fostered
with feverish fancy. After the deplorable news of her rightful husband's
death had been conveyed to the sly and shameless questioner, who tried
hard to balance her faintish frame unobserved, she asked an interview
with Sir Hugh Dunfern. This also was denied, on the ground of absence
from home.
Heavily laden with the garb of disappointment did the wandering woman of
wayward wrong retrace her footsteps from the door for ever, and
leisurely walked down the artistic avenue of carpeted care, never more
to face the furrowed frowns of friends who, in years gone by, bestowed
on her the praises of poetic powers. Forgetful almost of her present
movements, the dangerous signal of widowhood was seen to float along the
family graveyard of the Dunferns.
Being beforehand acquaint with the numerous and costly tombstones
erected individually, regardless of price, the wearied and sickly woman
of former healthy tread was not long in observing the latest tablet, of
towering height, at the north-east end of the sacred plot.
There seemed a touchy stream of gilded letters carefully cut on its
marble face, and on reading them with watery eye and stooping form, was
it anything remarkable that a flood of tears bathed the verdure that
peeped above the soil?
The lines were these:--
I.
The hand of death hath once more brought
The lifeless body here to lie,
Until aroused with angels' voice,
Which call it forth, no more to die.
II.
This man, of health and honest mind,
Had troubles great to bear whilst here,
Which cut him off, in manhood's bloom,
To where there's neither frown nor tear.
III.
His life was lined with works of good
For all who sought his affluent aid;
His life-long acts of charity
Are sure to never pass unpaid.
IV.
Sir John Dunfern, whose noble name
Is heard to echo, far and wide,
In homes of honour, truth, and right,
With which he here lies side by side.
V.
The wings of love and lasting strength
Shall flap above his hollow bed;
Angelic sounds of sweetest strain
Have chased away all tears he shed.
VI.
Then, when the glorious morn shall wake
Each member in this dust of ours,
To give to each the sentence sure
Of everlasting Princely Power--
VII.
He shall not fail to gain a seat
Upon the bench of gloried right,
To don the crown of golden worth
Secured whilst braving Nature's fight.
After carefully reading these lines the figure of melting woe sat for a
long time in silence until a footstep came up from behind, which alarmed
her not a little. Looking up she beheld the face of a youth whose
expression was very mournful, and asking after her mission, was informed
she had been casting one last look on the monument of her lamented
husband.
"Mighty Heavens!" exclaimed Sir Hugh Dunfern, "are you the vagrant who