Chapter XI: I Cannot Give You Up

The young stranger appeared to be “every inch” the lady, and Arley wondered more and more who she could be and what she could want, that she should thus come to her on her wedding day; while, as she gazed upon that refined and delicate face, there seemed to be some strangely familiar look about it that puzzled her.

She had been so intent upon reading her face that she had spoken no word, and the young girl, who had advanced half way across the room, suddenly stopped, as if ashamed at having intruded upon her.

This act recalled Lady Arley to herself, and she went forward to greet her, saying, with her usual cordial frankness:

“You wish to see me--you have something to tell me? Will you please tell me whom I have the pleasure of receiving?”

The girl flushed a painful crimson at this question.

“That, and that alone, is my errand here to-day--to tell you who I am, though I shrink from giving you what, I fear, will be a painful shock,” was the embarrassed and faltering reply. “My name is the counterpart of your own, or at least, what your own has been until to-day--Arley Wentworth!”

Arley gave her a startled look, and grew a trifle pale at this strange information.

“I can tell you nothing of my parentage,” the girl continued, “for I know nothing about it; that I have yet to learn from others. My earliest recollections are of a very simple life with rough, but kind-hearted people. The man whom I was taught to call and regard as my father was a fisherman.

“Upon one occasion a severe storm overtook him, and he was driven far out to sea--in fact, his vessel came very near being wrecked, and he, with his small crew, barely escaped with their lives. When the storm passed, they patched up their injured craft as well as they could, and then began their toilsome task of working back into port.

“While thus engaged, one of the sailors descried a small object which excited his curiosity, tossing about on the still angry waves, like thistle-down upon the wind. He pointed it out to his captain, who also became very curious about it, and immediately launched a boat for the purpose of securing it. To his great astonishment he found it to be a child, carefully wrapped in a rubber waterproof and lashed into the tray of a trunk. At first they thought I was dead--for I was that child--I was so benumbed with the cold and wet; but after working over me for a while, they perceived signs of life, and persevering in their efforts, they finally had the satisfaction of restoring me completely. The captain took me home to his wife, and having no children of their own, they concluded to adopt me, and I was named Ina Corrillion.

“Their home was on the northern coast of Spain, not far from the city of Bayonne, in France. It was a rude little hut, containing only three small rooms, which were furnished, in the most meager manner, if, indeed, they could be said to be furnished at all.

“When I was twelve I was deprived, by accident, of even the care of these good fisher folk, and again thrown a waif upon the world. A heavy piece of timber, which was to be used in repairing the vessel belonging to Carlos Corrillion--my so-called father--was being hoisted to the deck, when the ropes gave way, and it came crashing down with tremendous force. Carlos was standing directly beneath it, and his wife, seeing his danger, sprang forward, thinking to ward off the fatal blow; she made a misstep and fell, and both husband and wife were crushed to death by the massive beam.

“I will not go into detail now regarding their burial and what followed, but simply state important facts. I was taken to Bayonne, after all was over, and put into a charity school.

“Carlos and Annette Corrillion were partly of French, partly Spanish descent, and spoke the language of Spain in an incoherent fashion. Of course this had become to me like my native tongue; but after I went to reside with the sisters at Bayonne, I was taught both French and English; and here, also, I began to experience a curiosity regarding my parentage. One of the sisters there was very kind to me, interesting herself in an unusual degree in my progress, and assisting me over many rough places, until I grew to love her dearly. One day I told her all that I knew of my story, and showed her my little bundle of clothes which Carlos had kept. She examined them very critically, and became quite excited over them. There was a little dress and skirt, made of the finest material, and beautifully embroidered; a tiny pair of lisle thread stockings, and shoes; a little chain of fine gold, which had been clasped around my neck, and marked on the catch with the letters ‘A. W.’ There was also a tiny ring, with the name ‘Arley’ traced in wee letters on the inside; and, while looking over the waterproof cloak, which had been wrapped around my bundle, she had found a pocket, on the inside of which a piece of cloth had been sewed, bearing the name, ‘Evelyn Wentworth.’”

“My mother’s name!” exclaimed Arley, with white lips and dilating eyes.

Her companion did not reply to her interruption, except by a look of sorrowful compassion, and then resumed:

“The Sister folded everything with great care, and told me never to part with one of them. ‘You will find your friends some day, if you keep them,’ she said; and also remarked that she believed, from my appearance and the name upon the waterproof, that I was of English parentage. Greatly encouraged by her sympathy and interest, I redoubled my efforts to learn, and gave my attention almost exclusively to English branches.

“When I was fifteen, the matron of the school had an application from an English lady who was traveling, for a nurse. I need not tell you that I pleaded most eagerly for the place when the matron made the application known, and after an interview with the lady herself, I was at once installed as nurse over three unruly, but very pretty children. The family remained abroad a year, and then we all came to England. Mrs. Alden’s home is in Bristol, and there I have been with her during the last three years. She has been very kind to me, treating me more like a friend than a servant.

“Soon after our return, Mr. Alden began to institute inquiries regarding my parentage, but without success, until a month ago, or a little more, we came to London. A week after our arrival here, we read in one of the papers a notice of the approaching marriage of Miss Arley Wentworth with Mr. Philip Paxton. The name--your name--thrilled me at once, for I felt that at last we had found a clew. We thought the rest would be comparatively easy, but we found great difficulty in ascertaining your place of residence. Day after day Mr. Alden made inquiries, but it was only yesterday that he succeeded in finding Mr. Paxton’s office. He was out when Mr. Alden called, and he was somewhat dismayed to learn that he was to be married to-day, and go abroad immediately for several months. He then asked the clerk if he could give him the name of the guardian of the young lady whom he was to marry, and he immediately directed him to Mr. Holley, your lawyer. He hastened at once to his office, and laid the facts, which I have related to you, before him. He examined the articles of which I have spoken, and questioned Mr. Alden very closely, and then, not satisfied, he came to see me, and obliged me to repeat my story. He was very loath to admit my claim, for he is very fond of you; but at last he was obliged to confess that I am entitled to the name of--of--Arley Wentworth. He was, however, so disturbed that he refused to come and acquaint you with the facts, although we all felt that it belonged to him to do so; Mr. Alden recoiled from the task, and at last I said that I would come and tell you my story, and that is how I happened to intrude upon you at this unfortunate hour.

“I know, Mrs. Paxton,” the girl concluded, rising her pleading eyes, which were full of tears, to Arley’s white face, “how hard this must be for you--and upon this day of all others I regret that you should have to learn it. I feel as if you must almost hate me for coming here in this way to steal your name from you, and to throw upon your shoulders the burden of mystery and doubt which for so many years I myself have borne. But it was necessary--I must establish my birthright, and learn something of the parents for whom my heart had been hungering all my life.

“Don’t look at me so, please,” she continued, as she looked up and met Arley’s burning, staring eyes. “I would gladly have spared you if I could; forgive me--pray forgive me--for the pain I am causing you.”

Arley put out her hand to stop her.

“Have you that package of clothing with you?” she asked, in a hollow tone.

“Yes, I brought it, but I left it outside the door; I did not like to bring it in until I had told you my story. I will get it for you.”

She arose and went to the door, and Arley, in spite of the conflicting emotions which were raging in her heart, could not help noticing how perfectly ladylike and graceful she was in every movement, and she found herself wondering how it could be possible for any one to become so refined and cultivated in the face of the difficulties which had beset her hard life from the very beginning.

She brought the package and laid it in Arley’s lap.

With icy, trembling fingers, she unfolded the waterproof, and there within it, wrapped in a fine towel, was a little flannel skirt, finished on the bottom with rich embroidery. The little dress, too, was of finest texture and most dainty make. The socks and shoes were soiled and defaced by the sea water, but were evidently the best that could be obtained.

There was a little box in the package; opening it, Arley found the chain and ring of which the stranger had told her; and she found, too, the name “Arley” on one, the initials “A. W.” on the other.

Turning the pocket of the waterproof inside out, she saw the name “Evelyn Wentworth” written upon a piece of cloth which was sewed to the garment.

As she saw this, she arose, without a word, but with a perfectly colorless face, and rang the bell for her maid.

The summons was answered almost immediately, for inquiries were beginning to be made for the absent bride, and the girl was loitering in the corridor without.

“Send Aunt Angelina here,” Arley said, authoritatively.

Very soon the door unclosed again to admit an elderly lady, who, after one startled glance at Arley, turned and regarded the stranger inquisitively.

With swift, eager steps, Arley glided to her side, and holding the little ring and chain (which she had retained in her hand) up before her, asked, in a low, breathless tone:

“Auntie, did you ever see these before?”

The old lady uttered a startled cry as she beheld them; then she grasped them in her trembling hands and examined them closely.

“Child,” she said, excitedly, “this ring I bought and had marked myself, and the chain your grandfather purchased at the same time. We sent them to Evelyn for you, when she wrote us that she had a little daughter and was going to call her Arley. Where on earth did you get them? I supposed they were at the bottom of the sea.”

Arley sank, weakly, into a chair at these words. She could not utter one word in reply, for it seemed as if her tongue was paralyzed and as if all her senses were slipping from her.

Her young visitor sprang forward and fell upon her knees by her side, and began to chafe her hands.

“Forgive me--forgive me,” she pleaded, while glittering tears rolled over her own pale face; “I would have spared you if I could.”

This called Miss McAllister’s attention again to her.

“Child, who are you, and what have you done that needs to be forgiven?”

She bent to scrutinize her more closely, and all at once started back with a low, frightened cry, her face growing gray and haggard.

“Who are you, I say?” she whispered, hoarsely. “Are you a spirit that you come here with the face and eyes of Evelyn, my lost niece? I could almost swear that she had come back to me as fresh and fair as she was when she left us almost twenty years ago. Child--child, what is your name?”

At these wild, startling words, poor Arley bowed her face upon her hands with a low, despairing cry, and knew now why the face of the young girl had seemed so strangely familiar to her when she had entered the room.

It was a counterpart of a picture which was even then hanging in the library below--the picture of the lovely woman whom, until this hour, she had always believed to be her mother.

She knew, too, that the young stranger’s story was true--the identification of the ring and chain, together with Miss McAllister’s last words, had proved it beyond the shadow of a doubt.

The new Arley looked from the wretched bride to the perplexed and startled spinster in a helpless, appealing way.

It made her miserable to cause all this pain and confusion, and she did not know what to say in answer to Miss McAllister’s question.

But Arley came to her aid, and we are yet to learn that the strength and courage of heroes were in our fair young friend.

She sat suddenly erect, dropped her limp hands from her face, and, confronting Miss McAllister, said:

“Aunt Angeline, she is Evelyn Wentworth’s child. Her name is Arley Wentworth; she is your grandniece, and not I; I am an impostor, who all my life have been subsisting upon the bounty of strangers, while she has gone unloved and uncared for all her days. Tell her!” she concluded, turning to the girl at her side.

And, rising from her humble position, she repeated her story, in a few simple words, to the amazed woman who was her mother’s aunt. She showed her also the little clothes, and the waterproof, with the name written in Evelyn Wentworth’s own hand, and Miss McAllister was convinced of the truth of her statements.

“I never heard anything like it,” she said, in a bewildered way. “I feel as if I had been bewitched. But, my dear, you surely have Evelyn’s face; your voice makes me almost believe that she has come back and is speaking to me; and my heart is drawn toward you with great tenderness. But, my darling,” turning and fondly laying her trembling hand on Arley’s head, “how can I bear to think of any one else in the place you have occupied for so many years? I cannot give you up, my love, even though I were told a hundred times that you are not Evelyn’s child.”

The young stranger sprang forward and seized the woman’s hand, crying, as she pressed it to her lips:

“Oh, I don’t want you to give her up--I never thought of such a thing; I do not wish anybody to give up anything. I only wanted to be sure who I was--that I really belonged to somebody and need no longer live with such a mystery hanging over me. I thank you for saying such kind words regarding my resemblance to my mother, and that you feel tenderly toward me; I shall always love you for it. I am so sorry to have made you so unhappy,” she went on, turning to Arley with touching humility; “but I will go away now and never trouble you again. I hope, when you get a little accustomed to thinking of this, it will not seem quite so hard to you; you have a kind husband, and, perhaps, in his love and care, you will forget by and by, how I have troubled you to-day. My only object in coming to you was to establish my identity, and I did not dare to let you go away, lest something should happen to you before I could tell you. I thank you very much for receiving me so kindly, and bearing with me so patiently. When you get back, since you have a new name, perhaps you will not object to my taking, in a very quiet way, the one that belongs to me. But I will not annoy you any further now. I pray that you may have a prosperous journey and be very happy.”

She bent down and just touched Arley’s fragrant hair with her lips, and then turned away as if to leave the room.