Chapter XXVI: Jane Collins at Home

“I suppose I must bear your mistrust and displeasure, my lady, as best I can, since I have no means beyond my simple word, of proving my assertions,” Philip replied, with an assumption of proud humility, to Lady Elaine’s warmly-avowed confidence in Arley.

“Perhaps,” he added, “you might not be quite so skeptical regarding what I have told you if you should write to the woman with whom Arley lodged, or the lawyer whom she employed; I could give you the addresses of both. It is a great grief for me, Lady Elaine, to forfeit, in any degree, your esteem; for--for you must bear in mind that although I was attracted by Arley’s beauty and vivacity, yet it was not she who won the firm, warm passion of my heart.”

Lady Elaine made a gesture of displeasure at this artful insinuation, and the crimson surged hotly over her face.

“But she was your wife. You had promised to love, honor and protect her as long as you should live, and I cannot--cannot believe she could have been so false to her vows to you and to herself. Something which I do not understand must have occurred to work a radical change in her feelings in order to make her leave you. I believe you are mistaken regarding what you have told me about her unfaithfulness--a feeling of jealousy may have blinded you--Arley was so true and noble by nature,” Lady Elaine argued, very earnestly.

“No, I have not been mistaken,” Philip steadily replied. “She told me, out and out, that she would not live with me another day, and packed her trunks and went away to a lodging which she had hired without my knowledge. Then I witnessed a secret meeting between her and a man residing in Madrid, and I know that she took money from him; but that last act--leaving the place with that Englishman--was worst of all. Can you, even you, who love her so well, find any excuse for such a proceeding?”

Lady Elaine looked deeply troubled.

Surely Arley’s conduct did appear reprehensible, if things were just as he had stated them, of which she had grave doubts.

“Who was this Englishman?” she asked.

“I do not know. I never saw him until he suddenly appeared in court and argued her case for her; and when, after the decision was rendered, I commissioned her lawyer to go to her and ascertain if there was any service which I could perform for her, supposing her comparatively helpless as to the means of returning to England, he was told that she had left that afternoon with him, taking everything with her.”

“I do not like to do you injustice, Mr. Paxton,” Lady Elaine said, after a long and thoughtful pause, “but I cannot pass judgment upon her until I have seen and talked with her.”

“If,” she added to herself, “she did really leave Philip Paxton, I believe she had some good reason for doing so; my faith in her is stronger than it is in him, and I do not credit this story about the young Englishman at all. Arley would never dishonor herself.”

She showed so plainly that she wished the interview to end that Philip arose to go, feeling, however, that he had not accomplished very much in this first meeting.

“Do you remain in town long?” he asked.

“About a month, I believe.”

“Then I shall hope to see more of you; I beg to be remembered to Sir Anthony and Lady Hamilton, and if there is any way in which I can serve either of you, I hope you will allow me to do so.”

Lady Elaine politely bowed her thanks, but did not promise to avail herself of his offer; then he bade her “good-night” and took his departure.

Lady Elaine sat down the moment the door closed after her visitor, and indulged in a flood of tears for her absent and unhappy friend--she knew she must be that under any circumstances.

She was greatly distressed, for everything looked very dark regarding Arley’s strange proceedings, at least as they had been related to her, and though she could not, and would not, believe all Philip Paxton’s statements, yet there was very much about the affair that seemed unaccountable.

She did not mention a word of this to Sir Anthony or his wife--did not even tell them of Mr. Paxton’s return, as she knew that disagreeable inquiries regarding his wife would follow; but the next day she went alone to call upon Miss McAllister and Ina Wentworth, hoping to learn something of her friend from them.

Both welcomed her very cordially and thought it exceedingly kind of her to come to them, when they knew of course that she went out so little.

In the course of their conversation, she inquired when they had heard last from Arley. She asked the question in a general way, for if they knew nothing of the poor girl’s trouble she had no intention of telling them what she had learned, believing that Arley herself was the proper one to do so.

They had received a letter from her only last week, Miss McAllister said, and she appeared to be in much better spirits than when she had last written. They had left Madrid, she wrote, and Philip had gone another way for a time, while she was to travel with some acquaintances whom she had made--a Lady Herbert and her son, Sir Charles. She spoke of them both in the highest terms, particularly of the former, who, she said, had shown her great kindness.

She had closed her letter by saying that they should probably travel four or five months longer before returning to England.

Miss McAllister remarked that she had felt very much relieved upon receiving this letter, for she had imagined Arley as being very unhappy in Madrid, by a word which she now and then dropped; but she seemed to be enjoying so much now, and was visiting so many delightful places, of which her letter was full, that she felt quite comfortable about her, although she “did long to see the dear child more than she could express.”

Lady Elaine went away both relieved and disturbed--relieved to know where she was, her letter had been written at Turin, on the way to the southern part of Italy, where they were to remain during the cold months--and disturbed to find a portion, at least, of Philip Paxton’s story confirmed.

Although the Anthonys did not go into company at all, on account of their bereavement, yet Philip Paxton contrived to meet them a great many times during the next few weeks.

While Sir Anthony was occupied with business, his wife and Lady Elaine spent the time driving and visiting points of interest. Thus Philip, always on the watch, often ran across them, as if by chance, and managed to render them some little attention, which made them remember him.

The first time Lady Hamilton met him she had, after greeting him most cordially--for had he not been the friend of her dear son?--inquired most kindly after Arley.

Philip shot a quick glance at Lady Elaine, and knew that she had said nothing regarding their interview to her friends, and so he replied in an offhand manner that she was well the last he knew, but was still traveling with friends, and he was home again to look after his business interests.

“It does not do for a man to play all the time,” he concluded, with a genial smile which he knew so well how to assume; “he must look after the stern realities of life somewhat.”

“True,” Lady Hamilton returned, unsuspectingly; “but it must be quite lonely for you. When will Arley return?”

“Her return is indefinite; it will depend somewhat upon circumstances, I suppose,” he said, and then turned the subject, while Lady Elaine regarded him with more respect than she had ever entertained for him; for, as she believed, trying thus to shield Arley’s good name until she should return and be able to defend herself.

It became a thing of frequent occurrence after that for him to spend the evening at the Langham, in Sir Anthony’s handsome parlors, and he was thus thrown much into Lady Elaine’s society.

He conducted himself with the greatest decorum, however, and though Lady Elaine still retained much of her former prejudice against him, yet she could find no fault with his manner and bearing whenever he was in her presence.

Thus three months slipped rapidly away, and Philip fondly imagined himself to be gaining ground, slowly but surely, with the beautiful heiress.

Sir Anthony had been detained in London far beyond the time he had expected by his business, which had proved more complicated and troublesome than he had anticipated; but being very comfortable at the Langham, and seeing that his wife appeared to brood less over her sorrow there in the busy city with so much to interest and entertain her, he thought it much better to be there than at Hazelmere, where during the cold weather they were shut indoors with little to occupy them.

One day Lady Elaine went out into the park for a quiet walk by herself.

Suddenly a shrill cry startled her, and, glancing back, she saw that a woman had been thrown down in the street by a passing wagon.

A crowd of curious men and boys immediately gathered around the unfortunate creature, but not one of her sex went near to speak a word of cheer or sympathy for her.

Lady Elaine looked in dismay at the rough crowd; she shrank from coming in contact with them, but her kind heart prompted her to at least manifest something of her compassion, and with a resolute air she went straight to the side of the sufferer, who proved to be a large, ruddy-faced woman, plainly but neatly clad.

The uncouth mob drew back somewhat at the appearance of a “real lady,” and, bending over the prostrate woman, Lady Elaine asked, in a gentle tone:

“Are you very badly hurt, my poor woman?”

The sufferer looked up gratefully at the sound of that sweet voice.

“Ah, leddy, I’m afraid my leg is broken,” she said, trying to speak bravely; but her white lips and the distressed look upon her face told that she was suffering extremely.

“Is it so bad as that?” Lady Elaine asked, regretfully. “What can I do for you?--do you live in the city, and would you like to be taken directly home, or sent to some good hospital?”

“No, not to the hospital,” was the quick, shrinking reply. “I live in Warwick street--number one forty-eight, leddy, and if you would kindly order a cab for me----”

“Go and get the roomiest carriage that you can find,” commanded Lady Elaine, turning promptly to a man behind her, and not waiting to have the sentence finished.

“Yes, mum,” was the respectful reply, while the man pulled at the straggling forelock which stuck through the brim of his ragged hat, and then darted away to do her bidding.

Then our fair Lily of Mordaunt turned again to the sufferer, and with her own soft, perfumed handkerchief, wiped away the cold drops that stood on her forehead and about her mouth, showing something of the agony which she endured.

They had not long to wait for a carriage, and when it drew up beside them, Lady Elaine gave directions about the arrangement of the cushions to make her comfortable, and ordered that she be carefully lifted and laid upon them.

Then she entered the carriage and seated herself opposite the woman.

“I am going home with you,” she said, in reply to the look of inquiry which she turned upon her, and the satisfied expression which settled over the anxious face more than repaid her for the bold step which she was taking.

Before starting, however, Lady Elaine turned again to the man who had procured the carriage for her, and asked:

“Do you know where Sir John Seymour lives?”

“The great surgeon, yer leddyship?” he questioned.

“Yes.”

“Yes, leddy, I knows.”

“Very well; I want you to take this card to him from me.”

She wrote rapidly upon the back of one of her visiting cards the name and number of the street where she was going, asking the great man to come there immediately; then giving it to the man, with a piece of gold, told him to make all possible haste about his errand.

Then she bade the coachman drive to No. 148 Warwick street. It was a hard ride for that poor creature over the rough stones; but Warwick street was reached at last, and No. 148 proved to be a very respectable, though unpretentious abode.

A rough, though kind-visaged man made his appearance at the door as the grand carriage stopped before it, while his mouth--a capacious one, too--and eyes were extended wide with wonder and curiosity at the unusual circumstance.

“Is this your home?” Lady Elaine asked him, putting her head out of the window.

“Yes, mum; and if ’tis John Collins ye want, I’m yer man,” was the hearty, good-natured response.

“Yes, John, it’s you we want, and ye’ll have to lend a hand to help me out of this,” said Jane Collins--for it is our old friend--with an attempt at cheeriness, though there was a ring of pain beneath it, which her husband’s quick ear detected at once.

“Jane!” he cried, in a startled voice, and, springing forward to the coach, into which he peered with a blanched and anxious face.

“Your wife has met with an accident,” Lady Elaine said, gently. “I hope, however, that it is nothing so serious but that time and patience will mend it.”

“Jane, what has happened to ye, my lass?” he demanded, never heeding the young countess in his anxiety, but speaking in a tone as tender and tremulous as a woman’s.

“I got run down by a team, John, and my leg is hurt; but”--as she saw his lips quiver--“never ye fear, man; time and patience will mend it, as the leddy says.”

She spoke bravely, but was obliged to clench her hands to keep back the groans that were almost forcing their way from her lips.

“Now help me in the best way ye can, and we’ll get ready for the doctor,” she added, after a moment, and drawing herself up as well as she could, though a cry burst from her in spite of her efforts to make no sign of pain.

“Oh, lass, lass! it’s a bad day when anything happens to ye,” pathetically cried her husband, as, assisted by the coachman, he lifted her from the carriage and bore her into the house and laid her upon her own bed in a room as daintily clean and as neatly arranged as any high-born lady’s could be.

Lady Elaine was surprised at the evidence of refinement in that little home, which contrasted so strangely with the rough exterior of its owners.

She assisted Jane in the removal of her clothing and the necessary preparations for the surgeon, and told her that she would remain until he came, since he was a friend of hers, while, besides, she could not think of leaving her with no woman to care for her comfort.

Jane was very grateful for this kindness, but her sufferings appeared to increase with every moment, while her injured limb was found to be frightfully bruised and swollen, as well as broken.

In less than half an hour after their own arrival Sir John Seymour made his appearance, and then there followed a season of terrible agony, during which strong, stout-hearted Jane Collins fainted for the first time in her life, while her husband, hanging over her in torturing suspense, was as helpless as a child.

Lady Elaine, her face like marble, alone rendered the surgeon what assistance he needed, waiting upon him quickly, calmly, and quietly, uttering never a word, but with her keen perception often anticipating his wants.

But it was all over at last, the broken limb was nicely splintered and bandaged, and Jane (exhausted, but so thankful that it was over), made as comfortable as possible under the circumstances.

“Do you know of an efficient person who could be procured to take care of you while you are obliged to lie here?” Lady Elaine asked of Jane, as she was preparing to return to her hotel.

The surgeon had been gone some time, but she was reluctant to leave the patient until she was satisfied that she was perfectly comfortable.

“Yes, there’s a woman across the way--Maria Stevens, she’s called. She goes out nursin’, but I reckon John’ll do well enough--he’s ’mazin’ handy about the house,” Jane replied, with an affectionate glance at her burly husband.

“I’m ready to do the best I can, but p’raps that ain’t the best ye oughter have, Jane,” honest John answered, as he tenderly smoothed his wife’s hair with an unsteady hand.

The sight of her suffering had “taken more stock out of him than the stiffest gale that ever blowed around Cape Horn,” as he afterward said.

“I think it would be better to have a regular nurse,” Lady Elaine said, with quiet decision.

“That settles it, yer leddyship; I’ll hev Maria here inside half an hour,” was John’s quick rejoinder.

“I shall come and see you again to-morrow, and shall hope to find you at least as comfortable as you are now,” the young countess said, kindly, as she took her leave, and, with many thanks for her kindness, both Jane and John bade her good-night, wondering how a “great leddy could stop to show such favors to them.”

Their experience with the nobility, as a class, had been such as to lead them to regard them as selfish and devoid of all feeling for every one outside the pale of their own hallowed circle.