The Inheritance

  "Then why put out the light when I entered?" said she, adding kindly, "Do not speak untruly, but tell me proudly why you came. Stay. What is that before you?" pointing, as she spoke, to a piece of gold that he had dropped in his alarm.

  He started, saw that he was discovered, and, falling on his knees, implored her not to betray him and he would tell her all. She promised, and he owned that he had taken money from Lady Hamilton's desk to purchase comforts for his mother, but he would restore it gladly and never sin again.

  "My poor boy," said Edith kindly as she took the money from his trembling hand, "when next you need aid for her, freely come to me and all I have to give is yours, but do not take from your kind benefactress what she would so gladly give you. Now go, and rest assured that none shall ever know what has chanced here tonight."

  With burning cheeks and downcast eyes, he thanked her gratefully and stole out with bitter shame and grief for his discovered sin.

  Edith quietly went toward her chamber, glad that she had saved the widow's son from guilt and grieved to see how sadly he had changed. Suddenly, Lady Ida stood before her, saying sternly, while she cast a suspicious glance at Edith's pale and startled face, "Miss Adelon, why are you wandering here at this late hour, and what were you doing in my aunt's private room? I saw you come from there. You are alarmed at meeting me. What does it mean?"

  "You came so suddenly upon me that I started, but not because I feared you, Lady Ida," said Edith, meeting calmly the stern eyes fixed upon her own. "I have been to replace the jewels that I wore. If you doubt it, you will find them in their places, and they are surely safe while Lady Ida keeps such good watch near them." And with a smile, she entered her own chamber and soon in happy dreams forgot all fear and trouble.

  CHAPTER

  X

  THE DEW WAS STILL UPON THE grass when Edith's light foot passed above it as she hastened through the park toward old Theresa's cottage. Four days had passed since she had seen her last, and she feared, from what her son had said when owning he had taken money for her sake, that she might be in need.

  Edith's gentle heart reproached her for neglect. She had stolen an hour from the rest she needed to help and comfort one whose failing life she cheered and brightened by her tenderness and care.

  "And do you really need no little comfort I can bring you? I feared you might be in want of something I could supply," she said when standing by Theresa's bedside.

  "No, dear Miss Adelon. I have all my grateful heart can wish, and if I could but think my Louis was in a safer home, I should be content to close these eyes in peace forever, though why need I fear, when you are by him. I can wish no better guide."

  "Does he ever bring you money when he comes, Theresa?" asked Edith as she turned her eyes away lest they should tell the cruel secret that would break the mother's loving heart.

  "No. He has no cause to bring it, for my kind mistress lets me want for nothing, and he must need the little that he earns to purchase the few pleasures that my poor boy has. Ah, if I were now as I once was, he should want for nothing that my toil could win. But why did you ask, Miss Adelon?"

  "Do not look so fearful, dear Theresa. I will see that he shall be supplied in such a way that he will never know who sends it and will then be spared temptation and unhappiness. But I must leave you now and hasten back. I have promised to befriend him, and I will." With a cheering smile, she left the cottage and went quickly through the shaded path toward home, but suddenly she stopped, for just before her stood Lord Arlington.

  He was soon beside her and, unmindful of the startled and displeased look that she cast on him, said rapidly, "Miss Adelon, today I leave you, but I could not go till I had pled my suit again, and now I ask you: Will you listen to my prayer, and in return for the riches, rank, and titled name I offer, will you give me but your heart? Once you have refused my hand. Again I tender it. Think well before you cast away what few would offer one so poor and friendless as yourself. Your grace and beauty captivated me, and I forget all else in the joy of winning you."

  "My lord," said Edith calmly, "poor and humble as I am, your wealth can never buy my love, nor your rank command respect for one who has rendered me unhappy by a selfish passion that cannot feel respect for my unfriended state, nor shame for the sorrow it has caused me, and that now seeks to win me by vain offers of wealth and honor that can never gain a woman's truest love. My lord, I thank you, but I have no heart to give."

  Lord Arlington's dark cheek burned at Edith's calm rebuke, for he well knew how many trials he had caused her and how silently she had borne them all. Loving her the better for the patient strength she had shown, he passionately answered as she turned away, "To whom then have you given it? I know you seek to win Lord Percy's heart and must have gained it, or you could not cast by all I offer with such cool disdain. I have watched and now can read the secret of his kindness toward you, and I know you will gladly take the wealth and honor you now scorn from me when he shall offer it."

  "My lord," said Edith, with a crimsoned cheek, "your words are false as they are ungenerous and unkind. Lord Percy asked my friendship and I gave it. More than this I cannot give to one so far above me. His wealth I do not covet. It never will be offered me, for he well knows I should refuse it, though not as I have yours, for he never would forget the kindness and respect he ever shows the poor and friendless, and he would never make his love a source of sorrow to one who never could return it. I have given you my answer. Now permit me to pass on alone."

  "Never, till you have told my rival's name. You love another, or you could not cast me off this lightly, and I will not leave you till I know," cried Lord Arlington as he placed himself before her, pale with anger and looking darkly on her face, which never seemed more beautiful than now, when she was standing fearlessly before him.

  With her calm, bright eyes fixed on him, she replied, "I have borne enough, Lord Arlington. Do not turn my indifference to contempt by this ungenerous resentment. I have given you my refusal frankly and with kindness. You have no right to question farther, and I shall not answer your uncourteous accusation. Let me pass. I will not be detained."

  "I have guessed aright, then, and you love him, or you would deny it," said he with a bitter laugh. "I can read in your blushing cheek and downcast eye. I know your secret. He shall know it, too, and then see if you pass as coldly by when he shall plead his suit. Nay, never look so proudly. You shall learn to fear me if you will not love." With flashing eyes and lips white with passion, he watched her cheek grow pale with terror as she leaned trembling against a tree.

  The green leaves rustled at her side and a clear voice cried, "Threats! For shame, Arlington. Stand back and let her pass." And, with a look of silent gratitude, she saw Lord Percy join them from the wood. "I thought you were too honorable to play the spy, my lord, and listen to a private interview like this," said Lord Arlington haughtily.

  "I was looking for you when your loud voice drew me hither, wherein I heard enough to know Miss Adelon would need protection from your uncourteous words and most unmanly anger. I thought you were too generous to vent your disappointed hopes in unjust accusations and in idle threats, as vain as they were cruel. Be yourself, Arlington, and ask pardon for this passion."

  "Your interference is as unwelcome as your words.

  Are you Miss Adelon's most rightful guardian, that you offer your protection ere it's called for?" was the scornful reply.

  "Perhaps she does not wish it. Pardon my intrusion, and believe me, if I had known it was an appointed meeting and that she was left here by no force but her own will, I should have spared you my unwelcome presence and myself the pain of looking on a scene like this," said Lord Percy gently.

  With a silent bow to Edith, he was going, when she turned to him, saying, while the bright blood mounted to her cheek, "It was no appointed meeting, and Lord Arlington can best tell whether I remained a willing listener to words that deeply wounded me and banished my respect for him. I am most grateful fo
r your kindness and should wish for no protection save the presence of one whose friendship and whose honor I so fully trust. I fear nothing now and can go softly on." And without a look, she passed Lord Arlington, and the winding path soon hid her from their sight.

  "Forgive me, Arlington, if I have offended you," said Lord Percy gently. "I spoke warmly, but it grieved me to see you/so forget yourself. You should have sought to win her tenderly. Jealousy and anger terrify and sadden one so pure and gentle as Miss Adelon. Can I do nothing now to aid or cheer you?"

  Lord Arlington looked in the quiet face that smiled so kindly on him and felt the passion in his breast grow calm beneath the light of those sad, earnest eyes. But his love was still unconquered, and he said with a bitter sigh, "She has refused the wealth and rank I offered her and would not listen to me. Love, some other image, has a place within her heart. Whose is it, Percy? Tell me that."

  "I cannot read the secrets of her heart, Arlington, but I trust whoever may be cherished there will prove worthy of the love of one so beautiful and sinless."

  "She has allowed you to become her friend, and in return for this, shall you not ere long feel for her a warmer feeling and seek to call her by a tenderer name?" said Lord Arlington, glancing at the sad smile on Lord Percy's face.

  "I should wrong the friendship she so frankly gave me if I could pain her by vain offers of a love she never could return and by rank and riches that cannot buy a noble woman's heart. No, Arlington, a true and faithful friend to serve and honor her I shall ever strive to be, but nothing dearer." In the changed voice and the heavy sigh, Lord Arlington read the secret of the pure and deep affection that lay untold within that noble heart. With a self-reproach he never felt before, he stood beside the friend who had unconsciously taught him the beauty of a true, unselfish love.

  They went slowly on along the path where Edith had just passed, both buried in their own thoughts and both longing silently to win the heart that neither could obtain. As they went through the park, Lord Percy stooped and lifted from the ground a handkerchief her name was on, and 'twas wet with tears. He laid it unseen in his breast, and none ever knew how tenderly 'twas cherished as the only relic of a love that never died.

  "Where is Edith?" inquired Arthur as they gathered round the breakfast table. "She is seldom late. What has detained her, Amy?"

  "I fear she is ill," replied his sister, "for I found her weeping bitterly in her own room, looking so pale and sad I could not bear to leave her when she bid me go and ask you to excuse her now. She will join us in the afternoon."

  Lord Arlington looked up as Amy spoke and met Lord Percy's eyes, fixed on him with a sad, reproachful look. He felt deeply all the sorrow he had given and the tears his selfish passion caused her and knew well why she did not join them until he was gone. Amy tried in vain to cheer him, wondering at his silence and the sadness that so suddenly had come upon him.

  At noon he left them and was waving his adieu to the gay group on the balcony when he saw a pale face at a lonely window. His heart reproached him for the wrong he had done her and, with an earnest wish for her forgiveness, he bent low when passing and fancied, by the faint smile on her lips, that she had seen his kind farewell and understood it as 'twas given. But he did not hear the deep sigh of relief as the carriage passed from sight, nor could he know the quiet happiness now hers as this sad trial of her gentle heart was ended.

  CHAPTER

  XI

  WEEKS HAD ROLLED AWAY. Summer was deepening into autumn, and Lord Percy's visit would soon be over. As the time drew near, his cheek grew paler and the smile was seldom upon his lips.

  Lady Ida fancied she could see the cause of this, for he was always near her and seemed to listen gladly when she spoke. Though he often looked at Edith, he now rarely spoke, and seemed, though kind and courteous as ever, to find more happiness away from her. Lady Ida sighed most tenderly and sang the songs he loved, leaning upon his arm with her most winning smiles while they wandered through the garden and the park, little thinking that her smiles were unseen and her songs unheard. When he walked so silently beside her, a fairer face was smiling on him in his thoughts, and another low voice sounded sweeter in his ear than the one talking gaily at his side. Yet in his calm, pale face, none could read the secret that lay hidden deep within and grew heavier to bear as, day by day, he saw those gentle eyes look gratefully upon him for any act of silent kindness he might do. It would have lightened the burden of his untold love could he have known how often thoughts of him stole into Edith's innocent heart and how unconsciously her reverence and friendship were growing stronger, though she never thought to call them by another name. Arthur and gentle Mary Villiars were now seldom parted, and Amy gaily joked them for the long, lonely walks they took, while she, as happy and light-hearted as the summer birds, knew nothing of the tender secrets lying in the hearts around her.

  "Edith, dear, put by this tiresome painting and come out with me into the garden, where the sunlight and the air will bring some color to this pale face. You sit here day after day and paint as if to earn your bread. I will not let you do so. You are getting ill," said Amy as she kissed her cheek and urged her tenderly to come.

  "Dear Amy, I am very happy here alone and am in haste to finish this. Do not stay for me, love. I can see you from the window and enjoy your happiness as if I were beside you," said Edith. As she watched her young friend's happy face, a bright smile shone upon her own. Turning to her work, she forgot all save that by her patient labor, she was gaining power to relieve the poverty and sorrow that so grieved her gentle heart. If all the sketches her skillful hand produced were sold, she might then give happiness to those who needed it around her.

  At length she laid her pencil down and, as she pressed her aching eyes, said half aloud, with a deep sigh, "Were it not a sinful wish, I should long to close these weary eyes upon a world where I feel utterly alone." A few tears stole between the slender fingers and, as they fell, she did not see a kind face looking through the vine leaves clustered round the window or know the longing that one true heart felt to bless and make her life most beautiful.

  A few moments passed, and as she resumed her drawing, Lord Percy entered, saying as he stood beside her, "May I wile away an idle moment here, Miss Adelon, and cheer your solitary labor with the poem that you wished to hear? It is very beautiful, and I should enjoy reading it if you will allow me."

  The grateful smile that shone upon her face as she gave her glad consent showed well what happiness a kind word gave her, and as she listened to the low voice at her side, all weariness and sorrow were forgotten. With a bright glow on her cheek, she bent above her work as it went quickly on, while Lady Ida wandered through the park and looked in vain for her companion, who, with all sadness banished from his face, was sitting where he gladly would have stayed forever.

  The poem was soon done, and Edith in her happiness forgot, as she conversed with simple earnestness, that she was telling all the high and noble thoughts that none ever had called forth before. Lord Percy, as he sat beside her, listened with a deeper reverence for the pure and tender heart she so unconsciously was showing.

  "Miss Adelon, a stranger waits to see you in the hall," said Louis as he entered, looking with a wondering eye at Edith's companion.

  "I will come. Pardon my leaving you, but I should not keep him waiting." And, with a happy smile, she passed out, little dreaming what awaited her.

  The stranger was a countryman, who gave her a packet, saying, "An old man gave me this and, paying me well, charged me to bring it safely and give it into no hand but your own. I must not tell his name, and more than that I do not know."

  After Edith thanked the man and rewarded him for his faithfulness, he rode away. She hastened to her chamber to examine the mysterious package, for the old man's strange words now came freshly to her mind, and, with a trembling hand, she opened it.

  A few papers and a locket were all it contained, and her tears fell fast as she gazed on the picture of
her mother and, placed plain beside it, the noble face of her unknown father, for her heart told her it could be none other. The first paper she unfolded was a letter from the old man, and this is the tale he told. While journeying in Italy, Lord Arthur Hamilton, the eldest brother of Edith's kind protector, saw and loved a fair Italian lady, poor, indeed, but of noble birth. They owere married secretly, and none of his English friends had ever heard of it, for he well knew the poverty and religion of his gentle wife would win only dislike and contempt from his proud kindred. So he lived unknown in his fair Italian home, where a child was born to him, and, in the love of these two dear ones, he found a joy that never changed, till death took him away and left them desolate. While journeying from a distant city, whither he had been to visit friends, he was taken suddenly ill. Away from home, unknown and dying among strangers, he had no one in whom to trust except his servant, and to him he gave a casket in which he had placed his will and the locket he had worn about his neck, and bid the man bear it to his wife with his last blessing and to guard it faithfully till safe with her, for its contents were most precious. He died, and his lifeless body was sent back as he desired to the friends he had left. No tidings of his death were carried to the loving wife, for the faithless servant, tempted by the richness of the casket and believing from his master's words that it contained gold or jewels, kept it. When safe from all pursuit, he opened it, hoping to be well repaid for the sinful deed, but, to his rage and disappointment, he found nothing there but papers and a picture. In his reckless anger, he sold the casket, put by the papers, and then, fearing he should be discovered, left the country; and none ever knew where he had gone.

  Meanwhile, the sorrow-stricken wife lived on, for she had secretly inquired and learned of the sudden death that had left her so alone. None knew other marriage and none now would believe it, for he had died and left no will, nor any word to prove it true. Her friends would close their doors against her, and so, poor and brokenhearted, she toiled on for her child's sake, till, worn with care and cureless sorrow, she lay down and never rose again. She left the orphan to the care of a humble friend, who gave her a happy home till he too passed away, and then the friendless child found an asylum with others lonely as herself. Here she was seen by a noble stranger, who, struck with her childlike grace and beauty and touched with her desolate lot, pitied the little orphan and took her as his own, and, with his own fair daughter, she grew up to womanhood and never knew the secret of her birth.