CHAPTER XXIV

ANOTHER PART OF THE TRUTH

A day or so after the scene in the Lincoln's Inn Fields office, a party of those interested in the circumstances connected with the amethyst cross assembled in the library of The Court. George was present with Lesbia by his side--Lesbia, still ignorant of her true parentage. Mrs. Walker, looking less grim than usual, had a seat near Mr. Jabez, who had come down to hear Lord Charvington's story and to witness the righting of the wrong which had been done to Lesbia. But two people who should have been on the spot were absent--Walter Hale and Lady Charvington.

On returning from London, where he had admitted the truth, Charvington had interviewed his wife. What took place between them was never known, for out of shame for the lady's behaviour Charvington said as little as he could, when explaining fully. But his wife must have been dissatisfied with the conversation, for she left The Court and returned to London. In spite of what her husband said, she absolutely refused to be present at the rehabilitation of Lesbia, and it must be confessed that Charvington felt relieved. He knew his wife's fiery temper and vindictive nature well, and therefore dreaded lest she should make a scene. Besides he was manifestly in the wrong, and when given an inch Lady Charvington immediately took an ell with all the zest of an ungenerous woman. Mrs. Walker having been the lady's schoolfellow had something to say on the subject: but she reserved her remarks until she heard Charvington's story. She, for one, was not astonished at Lady Charvington's failure to put in an appearance at the conference. She had never credited her with a kindly heart willing to forgive and forget. And time proved that her estimate was right.

As to Hale, the interview in Jabez's office had more or less done away with the necessity for his presence.

He admitted the truth of Charvington's statement to Jabez, and after confessing the whole of his wicked plots to gain possession of Mrs. Walker's money--or rather the money which now belonged to Lesbia as her mother's heiress,--he had been permitted to depart. This he did, knowing that the police were on his track, and that unless he could get out of the country he would be in danger of arrest. And if he were arrested he knew well enough that he would suffer a long term of imprisonment. Destiny, as Mrs. Walker had remarked, had been very kind to him, but the hour had arrived when she demanded the return of all the good fortune which she had lent. And Hale lurked in byways, trembling for the payment of the bill which the police--as Destiny's agents--were trying to present. He did his best to give the police no chance of presenting it, and longed--like David--for the wings of a dove that he might fly away and be at rest.

But enough people were present to give Charvington an opportunity of confessing his weakness and folly and, to be plain, cowardice, or, to be generous, want of courage. Only George and Jabez knew what he was about to say, as they already had heard the confession in the office. But Mrs. Walker and Lesbia were ignorant, and although they guessed that they had been brought there to hear how things could be righted, they little suspected the way in which this would be accomplished.

Lord Charvington glanced round at the attentive faces, and then abruptly plunged into the middle of his his story. It was not an easy one for him to tell, and only sincere repentance made him bold enough to open his mouth. "I have to right a great wrong," he said with considerable emotion, "a wrong done to you, Lesbia."

"To me!" The girl looked surprised and clutched George's hand tighter.

"Yes! Listen. For you to understand I must go back over twenty years. You remember that time, Judith?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Walker quietly, "but you should go back nearly thirty years, Philip. George is now five-and-twenty and I married his father some seven years previous to the time you speak of."

"I begin some twenty-three years ago," said Charvington, after a pause, "as it was then that I married your sister Katherine. Lesbia," he turned to the girl, "you are now twenty I believe?"

"Yes, but what have I to do with----"

"You have everything to do with it," interrupted Charvington, "for I am your father, Lesbia--your guilty, cowardly, cruel father."

"What!" Mrs. Walker rose slowly with a pale face and indignant eyes, "do you mean to say that this girl is my sister's child?"

"Yes, and as such inherits the money."

"I don't want it," said Lesbia, who was as pale as a wintry moon, for she could scarcely grasp the significance of her father's statement.

Mrs. Walker waved the objection aside. "I don't mind about the money," she said harshly, "and if George marries Lesbia the money is well bestowed. But to think that you, Philip, should know the truth and conceal it. I always thought that you were more sinned against than sinning, Philip, as Hale was your evil genius. But if you knew that Lesbia was your daughter why did you permit her to call that wretch father?'

"I am about to explain," said Charvington, trying to speak quietly, "and I remember the time, Judith, when you would not have called Hale a wretch."

"I remember it also," said Mrs. Walker, sitting down, "a time when I loved the man. But you know, Philip, how he deceived me and left me and threw me into the arms of George's father. I can neither forgive nor forget the cruelty with which he treated me. And you allowed your own child--my poor Kate's daughter--to call him father. How could you? how could you?"

"I was wrong, Judith----"

"Wrong," she repeated strongly, "you were wicked and cruel. What induced you to arrange matters so? Why was not Lesbia given into my charge? I was her aunt; I had the right to look after her. But I expect you and Mr. Jabez made up the matter between you and----"

"Pardon me," said the lawyer politely, "but I knew nothing for ever so long, and if I had known, I should have given the money which I held in trust to Miss Lesbia Hale."

"Is my name Lesbia Hale?" asked the girl, who looked pale and scared.

"Yes," said her father, "Hale is my family name. You are Lesbia Hale, as your half-sisters are Agatha and Lena Hale."

"My half-sisters?" muttered Lesbia bewildered.

"Of course. Your mother was my first wife, and you are her child; Helen Harrowby is my second wife, the mother of Agatha and Lena."

"Helen Harrowby," said Mrs. Walker with scorn. "Oh, I know her well, better than you know her, Charvington, or you would never have married her."

"Heaven knows that I have learned to know her," said the man bitterly, "but allow me to explain myself, and----"

"One moment," put in Jabez, "I wish to explain on my part to Mrs. Walker, that I knew nothing of the truth for years. It was only when you, madam," he addressed himself directly to Mrs. Walker, "told me of the theft of the amethyst cross, and how your son had obtained it from Miss Hale, that I got an idea. I fancied--on account of the cross--that Miss Hale might be your sister's child, but Hale swore, if you remember, that there was no child."

"Yes," said George caustically, "and then tried to pass off Maud Ellis as the child so as to get the money."

"That plot was doomed to fail from the first," said Jabez waving his hand, "as by then, I knew too much. I did not like to declare my belief that Miss Hale was the missing child, until I had further proof. In one way and another the proofs came to hand. When Lord Charvington appeared in my office at my request, immediately before Hale called with Miss Ellis, I was then pretty well convinced that he was Miss Hale's father. I was right."

"But you knew for years that he had been my sister's husband," said Mrs. Walker, "and knowing that, you should have asked him about the child."

"You knew also. Why did not _you_ ask?"

"Because from Kate's letter to me saying that the child was dangerously ill, I believed that it had died."

"You told me that," said Jabez, "and I thought so also. Perhaps I have been blind and have not done justice to my legal training. However, the case is a very peculiar one. Let us hear what Lord Charvington has to say, and then, if necessary, I can exonerate myself further."

Mrs. Walker moved her chair and caught Lesbia's disengaged hand. "I am quite ready," she said calmly, "and before Charvington speaks, I must thank him for giving me back Kate's child."

Lesbia was too overcome to speak coherently, but muttering something unintelligible, she sat between mother and son, her aunt and her cousin, allowing them to hold her hands, and feeling, poor child, that at last she had someone to love her, and cherish her, and take care of her. Lord Charvington cast a longing glance at the trio. He would have liked to take Lesbia in his arms, but it was part of his punishment to see her cling to others, while he detailed the folly that had led to his isolation.

"When I was young," he said in a steady voice, and speaking slowly, "there were two people between myself and the title I hold. I was then merely Philip Hale."

"The Honourable Philip Hale," said Mrs. Walker promptly.

"No," he contradicted, "no, Judith, my father was only a younger son. I had no title whatsoever until the death of my cousins by drowning placed me here as head of the family. And I had no expectation then of becoming rich and titled. I was simply a briefless barrister."

"And Walter's closest companion," muttered Mrs. Walker.

"Yes. But Walter was not so wicked in those days as he has since proved to be."

"He was always wicked," snapped the woman, "he was your evil genius."

Charvington passed his hand through his white hair. "I fear he was. However, we can talk of that later. Walter and I were the best of friends, and it was Walter who introduced me to Mr. Samuel Morse, a City merchant. He had two daughters. Judith----"

"That was me," murmured Mrs. Walker, "and the other daughter was my sister Kate. You loved Kate, and I thought that Walter loved me."

"Walter behaved very badly," said Charvington promptly. "He was poor while pretending to be rich, and so, when your father, not approving of his scampish ways, learned that you loved him, Judith, he threatened to disinherit you."

"Quite so, and learning that, Walter threw me over. Later, I married George's father, who was quite as scampish, but kind-hearted and honourable."

"Yes!" Charvington nodded, "I always wondered why Mr. Morse permitted that marriage as he knew that Walker was quite as wild as Hale."

"But he knew also that Aylmer was honourable, which Walter never was. Let that pass, I was jilted by Walter and married Aylmer. I lost my money and my husband, and was left with George to live on nothing. That's my story, I want to hear yours."

"You know most of it," said Lord Charvington, now speaking rapidly as though anxious to end a disagreeable task. "I loved Kate; she was the only woman I ever loved, but your father, thinking me as dissipated as Walter, refused to permit the match. Kate eloped with me, and your father would have altered his will but that he died before he could send for his lawyer."

"And that was me," said Jabez, "however, the will was very fair. You, Mrs. Walker, got your fifty thousand when you married your husband, and he soon got rid of it. The other fifty thousand pounds belonged to Kate, but she never appeared to get it. Why not?" he asked Charvington.

"Walter Hale again," said that gentleman quickly. "Kate and I were married and went on the Continent. I was poor and we lived quietly, hoping that some day Mr. Morse would relent. Then we heard that he had died. Walter undertook to find out about the will, and told us that Kate inherited nothing, that all had been left to you, Judith."

"And you believed him," said Jabez. "Why didn't you communicate with me?"

"I had no reason then to doubt Walter," said Charvington stiffly.

"Augh," groaned Mrs. Walker softly, "you were always an honourable fool."

"I was, in believing Walter," said Charvington, "and not until lately have I learned how I was deceived. Walter was always plausible and clever. Besides, I kept the fact of my marriage secret from my father lest he should disinherit me. Walter made capital out of that also. Then there was Helen----"

"Helen," cried Mrs. Walker, rising, much agitated. "She always hated me and hated Kate because Kate was pretty and you loved her. Helen and Walter caused all the trouble."

"I know that now; I did not know it then," said Charvington sadly. "I was always foolish as you remarked just now. I was living in Paris with my wife. Lesbia was a baby then. We met Helen, who pretended to be our friend."

"A friend such as Walter was," muttered Mrs. Walker.

"I fear so, but let us say nothing since Helen is now my wife."

"You let her off too easily."

"She is now my wife," said Charvington determinedly, "so that puts an end to all discussion. Besides, Walter was to blame, as my wife informed me in a conversation we had when she refused to be present at this meeting. He worked on Kate's feelings and made her believe that I was in love with Helen. I was wrong also, for then I went about much with Helen, while my wife was ill, so that in the end Kate grew jealous."

"You treated her worse than I thought," said Mrs. Walker darkly.

Charvington threw out his hands. "I never was a hero," he said entreatingly, "but surely I have suffered for my weakness--the weakness of a pleasure-loving man. I was wrong; I here admit publicly that I was wrong. Surely you will believe that my repentance is sincere."

Mrs. Walker looked at his drawn face and admitted that it was. After all, few men would have had the courage to stand up and speak as Charvington was now speaking--to lay bare the secrets of their weakness and strive, even at the eleventh hour, to make amends. Charvington had sinned through weakness; he confessed through strength gained from the lessons of a hard life, hard in spite of his outward show of prosperity. "I forgive you," said Mrs. Walker in softer tones, "go on."

"I come to the cruellest part," said Charvington in a thick voice. "Kate was so jealous that she fled with the child. I searched for her but could not find her. It was in winter. Then Walter sent for me. I came to England and he told me that Kate had come to him weak and ill and almost starving. She had sold what jewels she possessed to feed herself and her child, and only retained the amethyst cross which her father had given her. Then she went to Walter at Wimbledon, and there died in the arms of Bridget Burke."

"Was Mr. Hale married then?" asked George anxiously.

"No. He never married in his life. But when I arrived my wife was buried and had left the child to the care of Bridget, and also had given her the cross saying it was to be handed to Lesbia when she grew up."

"Bridget gave it to me on her death-bed," sighed Lesbia, who wept bitterly.

"Yes, I learned that," said Charvington with a heavy sigh. "But to go back to my story. I repented deeply of the way in which I had behaved. I meant no harm, and would have explained to my wife had she not left me secretly. I never had an opportunity of explaining. Kate simply disappeared and died. Owing to my conduct I did not dare to go near you, Judith, or I might have placed the child in your care. As it was Hale proposed that Lesbia should be nursed by Bridget and that I should allow him money. I agreed to this, as at the time it seemed the best way out of the difficulty. Then my cousins were lost at sea in their yacht. I came in for a large income and for the title. My relatives urged me to marry again. Chance threw me once more into Helen's company----"

"Chance!" snorted Mrs. Walker. "Chance! I know the minx."

Charvington passed over this remark. "I married Helen and took up the station I now hold. I arranged to allow Walter an annuity if he looked after Lesbia. He did so, and gradually she began to look on him as her father."

"And you permitted that--you permitted that," cried Mrs. Walker furiously.

"Yes," said Charvington with an effort. "Weakness again. My wife knew the truth and I did not dare to bring my child into the house. I provided that Lesbia should have a good education, and saw that she had everything she desired. Walter was kind to her in his own way. Gradually I came to accept the situation. Then the cross passed into Walker's possession, and--" he threw out his hand--"you know the rest."

George nodded. "But how did Lady Charvington learn the truth, and why did she want the cross?"

Charvington sighed again and hung his head. "I do not wish to speak ill of my wife," he said in a low voice; "but in justice to Lesbia I must be frank. Hale learned about the money waiting for Lesbia, and knew that it could be obtained if the cross was shown to you, Jabez, But Hale could not find the cross."

"I know why," said Lesbia quickly, "Bridget kept it secretly beside her, as my mother thought that Mr. Hale."--she did not say father--"might take it away. My mother told Bridget that the cross would prove that I was her child should any money be waiting for her. Bridget gave the cross to me and made me promise to say nothing to Mr. Hale, but to give it to the man I loved. While I was giving it to George, Mr. Hale came and then----"

"Then," said Lord Charvington, "he went to Cookham and told Sargent that you, Walker, had the cross. My wife had already learned through Sargent, who obtained the information from Hale, that if Lesbia produced the cross she would inherit a fortune. Then--she--" he hesitated.

Mrs. Walker took up the explanation. "I can see it all," she said scornfully, "Helen hated Kate so that she was determined that Lesbia should not get the money and hired Sargent to get the cross. He did through his brother. We know all about that. But did Helen know that Sargent was a thief?"

"No," said Charvington sharply. "Helen is not altogether bad. She did not know of that, nor did she ever suspect that Walter was such a rascal. I was amazed myself when I heard the truth. I only learned it during the last few weeks. But you can see how the cross came into my wife's possession."

"Yes," said George, "but why did she tell the lie about its being in the library?"

"To conceal the fact of how she came to get it, as she knew perfectly well that Sargent had obtained it in some underhand way. She guessed that if she swore I had given her the cross, that no inquiry would be made and, of course," he added apologetically, "as my wife, I should have been obliged to support her."

"Philip," cried Mrs. Walker, rising, "you are as weak as ever."

"No," denied the man, "I am strong. Things being as they are, I must make the best of them. Helen is my wife, and to save the honour of my name all that I have told you must be kept silent."

Mrs. Walker shrugged her stately shoulders. "I shall say nothing," she observed, "neither will anyone else. As to Walter, he can be left to the punishment of the law. But I am certain," she added, with emphasis, "that as he knows everything, he will speak if only out of revenge."

Charvington winced. "As I have sown, so must I reap," he murmured. "Let us hope that out of shame Walter will be silent and not add to my burden, which is already sufficiently heavy. If I have sinned through weakness, I have repented and I have been punished."

Mrs. Walker offered her hand. "You shall not be punished further by me," she said generously, "you were always good and kind, Philip, but very weak. I held my tongue about you, and I shall hold it still. As to Walter----"

"Oh," said Jabez, rising, "I daresay I shall find some means to square him. In the interests of all parties, it will be best to give him a sum of money and assist him to escape. Once abroad he will say nothing, besides which he will not dare to venture back to England. You forget, Lord Charvington, that although he has a hold on you by knowing so much, you have a hold on him by what you know. Now if I----"

"Do what you think best," said Charvington, whose hungry, bloodshot eyes were fixed on Lesbia, "I give you full permission. But my child--" he held out his arms to Lesbia, who rose pale and trembling--"will you not forgive me?" said the man in a thick voice. "I have done you wrong, but I have suffered and I will make amends and I--I----"

Lesbia ran forward and threw her arms round his neck. "I forgive you," she whispered, "and I will learn to love you, and--and--father!"

Her voice rose in a scream. Unable to bear the joy of this forgiveness, a long-threatened attack of apoplexy seized on the man's weakened frame. He tried to speak, choked, grew purple in the face and fell full length on the floor from the arms of the daughter he had not acknowledged for so many years.