Chapter XXI: A Wicked Deed

“Dearie, it breaks my heart to go and leave ye like this! If it wasn’t that my old man and me have never been parted for the thirty years we’ve lived together, and it turns me cold and sick to think of it at this late day, I’d never leave ye in this knavish country. But take heart, miss; it isn’t so bad, now that ye can talk with the doctor, and he’ll do everything he can for ye and get ye everything ye need. I’ve taken care of that, and I believe he’s half human, if he has got Spanish blood in him. And now, dearie, I must say good-by to ye. John is waitin’ below for me, and he’s that sorry for ye that he couldn’t sleep, but talked half the night about ye. He told me to give ye this--it’s twenty-five pounds--and he hopes it’ll do ye until ye can hear from the good aunt, and the doctor’s bill is paid up to now. Don’t fret, dearie, for the Lord will hold ye in the hollow of His hand.”

Thus spoke honest Jane Collins as she took leave of Arley late Tuesday evening, for she was to leave Madrid for Valencia early in the morning.

As she finished she crowded a roll of Spanish gold pieces into the sick girl’s feverish hand.

Poor Arley clung to her as if she could not let her go, while tears rained over her wan face.

“You have been such a kind friend to me,” she said, between her sobs. “I shall never forget it; I can never repay it--the kindness I mean. The money of course, you shall have back. But stay,” she added, with sudden thought; “I have some diamonds; I wore them the day I first met you. One of them is worth much more than the amount which you have given me, and you shall have it for security, and then, if anything happens that I do--not live to go home”--this with a little shiver--“you will lose nothing.”

“Tut, tut, miss; don’t talk like that. Ye’re young and ye’ll be all right in a little while, and I shall yet see ye back, hale and hearty, in ‘merrie England.’ But as for the di’monds, miss,” and the good woman’s face flushed a deep crimson, “Jane Collins isn’t that close that she’d wish to take the trinkets that were given to ye by some one who loved ye and who ye loved, maybe. But hush, dearie!” she added, in a whisper; “keep ’em close, keep ’em close, or somebody will be stealin’ ’em, as they did the other things.”

“But--but if anything happens to me, somebody else will get them away, I’m afraid, and it would be too cruel for you to lose all your hard-earned money,” Arley replied.

“Nothing ain’t goin’ to happen to ye, dearie; I tell ye ye’re goin’ to get well, and I couldn’t take the di’monds. When ye come back well and hearty and have plenty once more, then ye can pay me if ye want to, but if ye can’t--well, it’s only gone into the Lord’s treasury, and He’ll take care of it,” and the good woman’s look of trust was something wonderful to behold.

“I shall love you all my life,” Arley said, chokingly.

Jane Collins’ face flushed with pleasure, though tears rolled down her ruddy cheeks.

“Love is better than gold,” she remarked, sententiously; “anybody can earn money, but barrin’ my good man, ’tis a long day since any one told Jane Collins that she were loved. I don’t often get soft like this,” she added, swallowing a sob, “but if ye don’t mind, miss, I would just like to kiss ye once on the cheek and then say good-by.”

Arley put up her arms, and, drawing the woman’s face down to her, kissed her heartily.

At that moment, when she was so wretched and desolate, the homely, honest face of Jane Collins seemed the most beautiful and trustworthy countenance in the world to her.

But when at length the last word was said and she had gone with reluctant feet from the place, Arley felt as if she had not a friend left in the world.

She was worse that night, of course, after all this excitement, and the physician was much disturbed about her, while for more than a week afterward there was a doubt in his mind whether she would ever be any better.

She was delirious most of the time, babbling of home, grandpa, auntie, Lady Elaine and Hazelmere in the most confused manner imaginable.

But at length she began slowly to mend; the fever abated a little every day until she had none, and then there was a long struggle with weakness and languor.

As soon as she began to realize that she was really better, however--when the doctor told her that if she would only have courage and patience she would be all right again in time--she took heart and resolved that she would get well with all possible speed.

One night, some three weeks after this, the little physician trotted down the stairs after leaving her room, a satisfied smile on his dark face.

He had been called from the city early in the morning to a patient at some distance, and he had been unable to visit her until evening; but he had been much pleased to find her greatly improved and actually sitting up with a pretty white wrapper on and the suspicion of coming color in her cheeks.

He laughingly told her that she would be regarding him as an intruder in a few days if she progressed at that rate, for his visits would be needless.

As he came out upon the street he almost ran against a man who appeared to be lounging about the door.

“What do you want?” he demanded, curtly, and eying him suspiciously.

“There is an English lady sick within?” the stranger said, questioningly.

“Yes,” was the brief response of the physician, who saw that his interlocutor was a foreigner and evidently English also, although he spoke the language of Spain very correctly.

“Is--is she better?”

“Yes,” again briefly.

“Will she get well?”

“Yes, she is very nearly well now, but still weak, of course.”

The stranger turned his head quickly, but not before the keen eyes of the doctor had caught the look of disappointment which flashed from his eyes.

“The lady is a stranger, perhaps--would it be proper for one of her own countrymen to offer sympathy and--assistance?”

This was asked with a sort of nervous hesitancy.

“Sympathy is well--assistance in a time of need is better; but thanks, señor--she has a friend who can do for her all that she needs at present,” and with a stiff little bow went his way.

Philip Paxton--for it was he--glared after him, a flash of hatred in his eyes.

He had heard of Arley’s illness almost immediately, and had been in the habit of prowling about her lodgings and interviewing the servants regarding her condition.

They had given very unfavorable accounts, enjoying, as their class always do, something exciting to talk about, and he had been led to believe that she would not recover.

It was a shock to him now, therefore, to be told that she was getting well, for, horrible as it seems, he had actually hoped that she would die, so that he could carry out a cunning scheme which of late had been developed in his brain.

He left his lodgings the same day that Arley went away, and had also gone into humbler quarters; while, a few days later, he might have been seen in a gambling den, watching, with wild eyes and haggard face, the turn of the wheel which would either make him a beggar or fill his purse with gold.

He won, and with a hoarse cry of joy he swept the pile of glittering coins toward him, and then, in spite of the enticing invitation of the banker to “try his luck again,” cramming them into his pocket, he staggered from the place as if intoxicated with his good fortune.

The next day found him in another den of the same kind--he was too cunning to try twice in the same place--and again he won.

“That will do,” he muttered; “it’s enough to give me quite a start, and I’ll stop while I am safe,” and, buttoning his coat close over his hoard, he stalked from the place, wholly unmindful of the dark looks of the disappointed banker.

He had told Arley, on that morning when she had paid their board out of her own earnings, that he had no money.

Whence, then, came the gold that he had staked at the gaming-table, and that had enabled him to win more?

* * * * *

As soon as Arley was able to get out she went once more to the art store where she had sold pictures to ascertain if she could still continue to supply sketches there.

The proprietor was shocked at the change in her, and she did, indeed, look more like some frail, beautiful spirit than an earthly being; but he told her that he would take all the work that she could do.

Every day she grew stronger; every day she was able to draw a little more, though the doctor, coming in occasionally to see how she progressed and looking over her shoulder at her dainty work, muttered, with a scowl of disapprobation, that he should have her again on his hands if she did not take care.

Arley raised her lovely dark eyes to his face, and he saw the terrified expression in them.

“Will it make me ill again? Please don’t tell me so, for I must work--I must go home!”

He knew that she had been robbed--she had confided so much to him--and that she would have to earn money before she could return to her friends, and he had favored her all he could in his charges. He wished now, as he saw the desperate homesickness in her eyes, that he had taken nothing from her, and so he had not the heart to tell her that she must not work--indeed, he began to think that if deprived of employment she might be in even more danger of another illness.

“Well, well, be moderate, then, señora. Be careful and not apply yourself too closely,” he said, and so her work went on.

Arley wondered where Philip could be all this time. She wondered if he knew what she had been suffering during the last six weeks. If he had known and been there in the same city with her, he was certainly very unfeeling and cruel not to come to her and at least offer her a word of sympathy in her extremity.

A month passed, the passage-money was almost earned, and Arley had decided to sail on a certain steamer which would leave for England within the coming fortnight, when, one morning, a servant brought an official-looking document to her.

With a look of wonder upon her face, which was growing wondrously lovely every day now--sickness and sorrow had given it a sort of refined beauty, such as it had never possessed before--she took the strange-looking missive and broke the seals.

She saw at a glance it was written in French; therefore whoever had sent it knew that she was not familiar with Spanish.

She began to read it, though the formalities and legal terms puzzled her, but she kept on, until at last a low cry of horror burst from her. Her eyes dilated with pain, her cheeks faded to the hue of death, and she trembled so that the paper rattled in her hands.

A blur seemed to obscure her sight, so that the words ran together until she could not read them. She passed her hand across her eyes to dispel it, and read again those stiff, formal sentences which had agitated her so deeply.

Then, as she comprehended their full meaning a vivid crimson mounted to her brow, her nostrils dilated, her lips curled with mingled scorn and bitterness.

Philip Paxton had applied to the court of Madrid for a divorce from his wife Arletta Paxton, and the paper stated two reasons for this--an illegal marriage and subsequent desertion, and she was notified to appear on a certain day to defend her case.

Had it come to this, that with all her other troubles, she must be a divorced wife?

What was the man, who had won her with such fair, fond words--who had vowed fidelity and sworn to love, honor and care for her until death should part them--made of, that he could contemplate this fearful thing?

But why should he claim that their marriage was illegal?

This charge surprised her.

How could their marriage be illegal when it had been performed in the presence of so many witnesses, and with all the necessary forms and ceremonies?

Then, like a flash, it came to her that she had been married under a name to which she had no right. She was not Arletta Wentworth, nor Arletta anything else. The name that she was known by was not hers; it was only retained for convenience, since she must be called something.

Arley cast that hateful document from her with a gesture of loathing.

“I have half a mind to appear against him,” she said; “it might be a blessed freedom to me as well; to have these galling ties severed, even though a divorce means nothing. I promised ‘until death should part us’--and I meant it. Shall I sit quietly down and allow him to have his way--allow the world to believe I deserted him and make no effort to vindicate myself.”

She mused a long time over these questions; but finally, with firmly compressed lips and uplifted head, she added:

“No; I will go and hear what he has to say for himself. I will face him, and let him know that I consider our marriage legal, if he does not. I will tell my story. I will tell how it happened that I deserted him. I will not tamely submit to this indignity.”

She sought a lawyer named Proquelin, who could speak French, but with whom she was unfavorably impressed, to say the least.

He was tall and straight as an Indian; his thin, lank hair, black as the shades of Erebus, hardly covered his ill-shapen head, which was tall and narrow like himself, a projecting forehead, wrinkled and tawny, with heavy brows, overhung a pair of small, piercing black eyes, which had a cunning gleam in them that actually made Arley shiver with apprehension. He had high cheekbones, a thin nose, and a vile mouth, within which there was a set of yellow, decaying, disgusting teeth--and altogether he was exceedingly repulsive.

Arley had more than half a mind to turn and fly from his presence, give up the battle and go home as fast as steam and sail could take her, for she was filled with distrust of the man the moment she beheld him.

But he came forward upon her entrance, and addressed her courteously in Spanish.

She shook her head and replied in French that she did not understand; whereupon he addressed her in that language, politely drew forward a chair, and asked her to be seated.

She complied, and then entered at once upon the object of her call. She told him her story as briefly as possible, but all the while she was relating it, with drooping eyes and flushed cheeks, the wily lawyer was studying the fair face with a rude, inquisitive start, mingled with intense admiration.

“Yes, he would undertake the case for her,” he blandly told her, when she concluded, and he added, he thought the case of the señora a strong one.

“But, pardon,” he added, with a low obeisance and an unpleasant smirk, “if the señora is not fond of the señor still, why not let him go?--why not allow him to get a divorce if he wishes, and be free from so disagreeable a husband?”

Arley flushed crimson at the question, and, with uplifted head and flashing eyes, replied:

“Because he has accused me falsely; my good name is at stake--my character must be vindicated; he shall not take it before the public and blacken it, without an attempt on my part to thwart his base purpose.”