Chapter XLIX: Lady Paxton

Before Arley slept that glad night, she wrote a full account of what had transpired to Philip, and begged him to return to her just as soon as possible.

“We are all so happy that we want you here to share it with us,” she said, “and when you do come, the reunion will be complete--perfect.”

A few days brought a reply, as fond and tender as the most exacting heart could wish; but Philip said he could not return just yet. He hoped it would not take him much longer to complete his business. He supposed he could run up to London for a few hours, but that it would be better for him to remain until he had settled everything to his mind.

Arley, though disappointed, strove to be content and to make the best of it. She was so sure of her happiness and his truth, that she could afford to be patient for a little longer, she thought.

Annie Vane and her husband were telegraphed for at the earliest possible hour the next morning after Wil’s return, and not many hours elapsed before they were on to the spot to greet him.

Miss McAllister and Ina were also sent for to come and rejoice with the happy household; and it did not seem as if there could be a more blessed family on earth than that which gathered around the hospitable board in Mordaunt House upon that day.

Lady Hamilton sat by the hour and feasted her eyes upon the face of her idolized son. Sir Anthony got up a dozen times during the day to go and take him by the hand.

“I cannot feel quite sure, even yet, that it is true, unless I touch you, to assure myself that you are really flesh and blood,” he would say, tremulously, and as if to apologize for the act.

Lady Elaine was content to simply sit by her lover’s side, where she could look at him and listen to his voice; but her face was once more the radiant face of the Lily of Mordaunt.

Arley, growing every moment more buoyant and like the bright girl that she was when we first knew her, flitted about like a lightsome fairy, performing little offices of love for the dear ones about her, and attending to the comfort of the family generally, for no one else seemed capable of doing it, so absorbed were they in the returned wanderer; while Eddie Winthrope followed her from room to room, feeling almost as if she was an odd one and left out in the cold, and he wished to make it up to her by showing her all the attention in his power.

Once, when they were passing through the hall together, Arley put her arm about his shoulders and gave him an ecstatic hug.

“Isn’t it beautiful, Eddie, to have everybody so happy once more? And when Uncle Philip comes----”

A soft kiss dropped from tremulous lips upon his forehead told him better than words could have done what that coming would be to her.

“Yes,” he assented, with a little sigh, half of content, half of sadness, as he thought of those two lonely graves in the distant churchyard; “it seems almost like heaven.”

“But,” he added, with a flush and a fond glance up into her face, “I never thought anybody could grow so lovely as you do.”

“Thank you, little flatterer,” she returned, laughing; “it is all because I am so happy. Happiness is a great beautifier, it is said. But, Eddie,” she asked, suddenly, “how is that invalid limb?”

“Oh, it is ever so much better; there is no soreness at all now. That last wash that the surgeon gave me has done it a great deal of good.”

“I was thinking,” Arley said, speaking very tenderly, for the boy was exceedingly sensitive about his lameness, “that I would like to take you to Monsieur Roulins and have that new foot fitted to you, so that you can get used to it a little before Uncle Philip comes, and give him a pleasant surprise. Besides, there is to be a grand wedding very soon, to which we are invited, and I shall want my boy to make as fine an appearance as possible.”

The boy wound his arm about her waist with an impulsive movement.

“How good you were to say that I might always stay with you and Uncle Philip--how I love you!” he said, earnestly.

“Why, Eddie!” Arley cried, deeply touched by this manifestation of feeling, “it wasn’t because I was ‘good’ at all, I shall even have to confess to being a little selfish about it, I wanted you, for I began to love you that day when I first met you in the art gallery. But come, I want you to go to the conservatory with me, to help me cut and arrange some flowers--we must deck the whole house to-day in honor of our guest, and then, by and by, we will steal away for an hour or so, and go to see Monsieur Roulins.”

* * * * *

Ina Wentworth’s wedding day drew near, and when Wil heard of it, and that Lady Elaine, Arley, and Annie had been chosen to act as bridesmaids--for Ina said she would have only those whom she loved about her, when she took her marriage vows upon her--he declared that if Sir Charles and his fair bride-elect did not object, they would make a double wedding of it, for he did not intend to stand upon ceremony, but claimed his wife at once.

All seemed to be pleased with this arrangement; even Lady Elaine did not demur, though it gave her very little time, and so it was decided that there should be two brides instead of one upon the ninth of December, the day set for the ceremony.

Philip was notified of this decision, and wrote that he thought he should be able to get through with his business so as to return the day before the wedding, and though Arley was growing very impatient, she was still very happy, and so busy and interested in the happiness of others around her, that the days slipped very quickly by.

Eddie was provided with his new foot, and found that he was not nearly so awkward with it as he had expected to be at first. Arley was greatly astonished and no less delighted, when, on the day that they went by appointment to get it, he walked a little way down Oxford street with her and scarcely limped.

She had an errand at her lawyer’s office--which was only a short distance from Monsieur Roulins’ rooms--which was no other than to commission the good man to settle an annuity of a hundred pounds upon good Jane Collins, and Captain Bancroft’s destitute widow.

Lady Elaine had already made the same provision for them, and thus those humble, but whole-hearted people, were made comfortable for the remainder of their lives.

The day before the double wedding--the day set for Philip’s return--arrived, and all through its long hours Arley watched for her husband with almost feverish impatience and anxiety.

But he did not come.

Late in the afternoon there came a telegram to her, saying that, to his great disappointment, he had missed his train, but he would surely be with her early in the morning.

This was a great and unforeseen trial to the young wife, and for a while made her sad and depressed.

“It is too bad, Aunt Arley; I am so sorry,” Eddie said, glancing ruefully at her overcast face, and slipping his hand within hers to show his sympathy.

She heaved a deep sigh; then she turned to him with a smile.

“I was so sure that he would come that it seemed very hard to get this,” she said, touching the telegram; “but I will try not to cloud the happiness of any one else, and the few hours that must intervene will soon slip away.”

“I will imagine,” she said to herself, “that to-morrow will be my own--my real wedding day, also, and that Philip will then come to claim his bride,” and she exerted herself all the evening to make everything bright and pleasant for those around her.

Just as the family were about to separate for the night Arley and Lady Elaine were standing together with their arms twined about each other, and Sir Anthony went up to them and laid a hand upon the shoulder of each.

“The ‘Lily’ and the ‘Rose’ of Mordaunt,” he said, smiling fondly upon them, “two of the sweetest flowers that ever bloomed in this world of ours; Heaven bless you both! I love you both almost as if you were my own daughters.”

Morning came--a beautiful, cloudless morning--a perfect day such as gloomy London rarely knew; and there were sweet voices, radiant faces, and busy hands and feet in Mordaunt House.

At nine o’clock a carriage drove rapidly down the street, stopped before the door, and Philip Paxton, strong, well, and never handsomer, sprang lightly to the ground.

A figure that moment suddenly disappeared from the window above the hall, and when he entered the vestibule below, a lovely vision came gliding down the stairs to greet him.

It was Arley, in a dainty white wrapper, with simply a bunch of roses in her belt.

Philip’s heart gave a great bound at the sight of her, and his eyes were as tender as a lover’s as he bent to look into hers.

“My darling!” he said, gathering her close in his arms, “at last I have you; we will never be separated again while we live; and you are wearing the roses that I love best in the world! Do you know why I love them?” he asked, touching them tenderly.

“Perhaps for the very same reason that I wear them,” Arley answered, with shining eyes, as she laid her soft cheek against his and nestled closer to him.

“What is that?” he asked.

“Once, when we were at Hazelmere, I gave you a crimson rose, and you called me the ‘Rose of Wentworth.’ Do you remember?”

“Yes,” he answered, “and I never see a crimson rose without thinking of it, and I have always loved it, because these dear hands fastened one above my heart that evening. But,” he added, with a glad light in his eyes, “I shall give you a new name to-day.”

Arley looked up with smiling inquiry.

“Wait,” he said, “until after the wedding, and then I will tell you what it is; but, whatever it may be, to me you will ever be the brightest and sweetest rose that blooms.”

“And I have a little secret for you also, when all this confusion is over,” Arley replied, archly. “But come and have your breakfast. I ordered it prepared for you, for I was sure that you would be here about this time. I will pour your coffee with my own hands, and then I must run away to dress. I ought not to have waited until now.”

“Why did you, dear?” Philip asked, with mock gravity.

“Because, you know,” she returned, with a shy glance and a bewitching blush, “I did not think it would quite do to have all my bridal finery crushed by such a ruthless pair of arms.”

Philip laughed such a glad, hearty laugh, and folded her still closer in his fond embrace.

At eleven o’clock the aristocratic bridal party from Mordaunt House passed, with “stately step and slow,” up to the altar of St. George’s Church, Hanover square.

Annie Vane and her husband led the train, and took their station at the right. Philip and Arley came next, and passed to the left, while the two brides arrayed themselves in front.

A brilliant throng had assembled to witness this double marriage, with which so much of interest and romance was connected, and it was really an occasion long to be remembered.

The two maidens about to plight their troth wore the conventional white satin, with exquisite veils of rare old point--one the gift of Lady Hamilton, the other of Lady Herbert--and fairer brides the “sun ne’er shone on.” The ever-appropriate orange blossoms graced fair Ina Wentworth, but Lady Elaine wore nothing but white lilies upon her bosom and gracefully drooping among the folds of her veil.

It was Arley’s idea; and Wil, when he saw his gentle bride-elect come forth from her hands, thanked her with shining eyes.

Annie Vane’s dress was of corded silk--a very delicate shade of pink, the effect of which was enhanced by an exquisite set of diamonds, her father’s gift to her upon her own marriage--while she carried in her hands a basket of pink and white azaleas.

Arley was especially lovely in cream-white silk, with rich crimson roses at her throat and in her belt, and a basket of beautiful blush roses in her hand.

When the rector came forward in his robes to perform the ceremony, requesting the parties to join their right hands, Philip quietly reached down and took Arley’s in a strong, yet tender clasp; and when Wil and Sir Charles repeated the solemn marriage service, she saw his lips moving also, and knew, with a quick heart throb, that he was renewing his own vows, while the solemn look upon his face told her that never again, while life should last, would he swerve from his allegiance to her.

She felt doubly sure of it when, after they had entered their carriage, its curtains drawn close, to return to Mordaunt House, he drew her again into his arms, and murmured:

“My darling, I feel as if to-day were our real wedding day.”

And then she told him how the same thought had come to her the night before, when she had received his telegram.

“It was the handsomest bridal party that I ever saw,” the Duchess of Bladesboro said to Sir Charles’ mother, when, after the grand breakfast was over, she went to congratulate her upon the acquisition of so sweet a daughter; and many of the other guests were heard to echo the same sentiment.

When at last it was all over, and the happy couples had departed upon their journey, Philip led Arley away to the little room over the hall, where he had seen her when he alighted from his carriage that morning.

“I want you to myself for a little while,” he said; “and,” he added, “I told you that I should give you a new name to-day--shall I tell you now what it is?”

“If you wish, Philip,” she answered, thinking it was perhaps some foolish pet name that he had thought of.

“Well, then, you are no longer simple Arley Paxton, wife of a humble barrister; henceforth you will be known as Lady Paxton, Baroness of Elmsford.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, with wonder-wide eyes.

And then he told her of the death of his three cousins and his aunt, and that he was thus left the only heir of the large estate of his uncle, with an income which would enable them to live about as they liked during the remainder of their life.

He said that he should give up his business in the city to his clerk, for his estate would be all the care he should wish for, and thus they could reside in the country during all the pleasantest portion of the year. He told her that he had been to Elmsford during all the past weeks, attending to having the house and grounds put in thorough repair, and having some refurnishing done which he thought a certain dark-eyed lady would like--this had been the “business” which had required his immediate attention upon leaving the hospital.

“Now I have confessed, and will proceed to take your deposition--you said you had one to make,” he concluded, smiling.

“Yes, Philip,” Arley said, regarding him earnestly. “It is the secret of my birth.”

He gave her a startled look.

“You have discovered--you have learned who you are?” he said, astonished.

“Yes, and”--growing a trifle pale, while she watched him closely, for she meant to test him a little further--“could you bear to learn that, though I have been educated to fill a high position, and perhaps am fitted to fill one, that my parentage was not such as would entitle me to it?”

He never hesitated an instant, but drew her close to his heart.

“My darling!” he said, and there was a note of passion in his voice; “every one has a sort of pride in his or her antecedents, but I believe I should rejoice to learn that you were of the humblest origin, so that I might prove to you how I love my wife, and how proud I am to give her a position which she is so worthy to fill. Dearest, I do not care who you are, or to whom you owe your being, since I have won what I most care for--your love and trust.”

She lifted her head from his breast and stood proudly before him then. She was almost regal in her beauty.

“Philip! Philip!” she cried, and there was an exultant ring in her sweet tones, “I am Lady Alice Warburton, eldest daughter of the Duke of Mordaunt, and Elaine is my own sister; but, oh! I am far more proud to be the wife of Philip Paxton, and to know that he loves me for myself, than I am of my noble birth!”

He did not speak for a full minute. Her tidings had amazed him, stricken him dumb, and, if the truth had been known, he was more sorry than glad to learn of her exalted station in life.

“How can that be possible?” he asked at last, in a very grave tone.

Of course, the story had to be all told over to him, but we know it, and will not linger upon it.

“How wonderful it all is!” he said, when she had related everything; “and,” with a blush of shame mantling his cheek, “how I schemed and plotted for the Mordaunt fortune! I made gold my idol, and lost everything--sacrificing even my good name and self-respect to achieve my ignoble purpose. But when I came to my senses and realized my sin, how strangely I have been dealt with! I have not only regained your love, the most precious of all things to me now, but fate has seemed to hurl me into the very lap of luxury and heap honors upon me. How I bless that sweet sister of yours for the rough kindness, which, like a mirror, reflected my moral deformity and vileness, and led me to draw back from the precipice over which I was about to plunge, and recover the honor and manhood which I had so nearly lost. My beloved, how much we both owe to the lovely ‘Lily of Mordaunt!’”

THE END.

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Transcriber’s Notes:

This novel was serialized in _Street and Smith’s New York Weekly_ from June 9, 1884 to December 8, 1884. This book edition differs from the serial in some minor ways, most notably that the original chapters XXXV and XXXVI have been combined and condensed into a single chapter.

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected.

Table of contents has been added and placed into the public domain by the transcriber.

The name “Corrillion” was frequently spelled “Corrillon” in the book edition. The spelling has been normalized to match the original serial appearance of the novel.

Inconsistent hyphenation (e.g. heartbroken vs. heart-broken) has been retained from the original.