CHAPTER XLIII.
A WHITE SOUL.
“When I came to my senses,” continued Lady Pelham, “I was more bewildered than anything else. I could not believe it was true—my husband had been playing some sorry, cruel jest upon me; still it was but a jest.
“I had never given a thought to any man living except my own husband; surely he must know that.
“The Duke of Launceston! what was he to me—a perfect stranger—indifferent. I did not care if I never saw him again. Of what did my husband accuse me? Oh, shame! Oh, horror! that he who had sworn to love and cherish me, to protect me, should be the one to play this sorry jest upon me. I must see him; I must hear him say with his own lips that it was all nonsense; he had done it all to try me. It was coarse, unfeeling, cruel, that he had not thought of that. He had perhaps been jesting with Captain Pierrepont. I must see him or I should go mad. I turned to the maid who knelt by my side, and told her to ask Sir Alfred to come to me at once.
“I felt very ill; my hands were cold as death, they trembled; my face burned, my brain whirled. I tried to steady myself by saying that my husband would be here soon, and I must be ready to meet him. My maid returned. She looked pale and scared. Sir Alfred and Captain Pierrepont had left the house; there was no message for me.
“‘My lady,’ said the girl, ‘is there anything the matter? All the servants are looking so strange—is anything wrong?’
“God help me! I went mad—mad with fear, shame, outraged love, wounded honor, and dread of what was to follow. I tore the hair from my head. I cried aloud for my dead mother. I was mad.
“They gave me sleep and merciful oblivion. But morning only brought me the same frantic alarm, the same terrible waking. What had I done; what were they going to do with me? What was wrong? I could not rise; my limbs were heavy, my head ached. I was bewildered and uncertain. There were times when I fancied I must have been guilty of some great crime, and have forgotten it. Surely my husband, whom I had loved and revered as the noblest of men, could never have wrongfully accused me. Was it possible that I had done anything wrong and had forgotten it? I tried to think over every word I had ever spoken—every action since I had been married, and I could not discover one that was worthy of such blame.
“‘An intrigue?’—I began to remember his words—he said that I had carried on an intrigue with the Duke of Launceston. What did they call an intrigue here in England? In my land it was something that young girls did not even know by name. What was it here? I had sung songs with him; I had paid him the same amount of attention that I considered due to all my husband’s guests; but Heaven knew my heart and conscience were free from all blame.
“How that day passed I could tell no one; it was one long dream of misery, one delirium of horror; and the night even worse. I saw the servants looking strangely at me—some of them sent in notice to leave—one or two went that very day; yet I was innocent, God knows I was—innocent as a little dreaming babe.
“The following morning brought a letter from my husband, it was even more cruel than his words had been. It merely said that he had commenced proceedings for a divorce, on the grounds of my conduct with the Duke of Launceston, and that he would not return home while I was there.
“Was ever woman so desolate? There was no one to whom I could appeal in this hour of distress—no friendly hand or heart to aid me. I could only kneel and pray to the most high God to make my innocence clear. Mr. Eyrle, my prayer will be answered yet.
“I was quite at a loss what to do. My heart was broken, for I had loved my husband very dearly. I had neither spirit, life, hope, energy or care for life left. What could life give me, now that he whom I had loved so dearly had proven not only false, but all that was mean, wicked and cruel. If I had knelt by my husband’s grave—if I had known him dead, it would have been ten thousand times easier to bear. I had no money. Sir Alfred never allowed me the free use of his purse. I had no friends. I shrank from going near any of the fashionable acquaintances I had made. Who would believe me innocent if he said I was guilty? Suddenly it flashed across me that this scandal must have been afloat in London, and that was why people looked so shyly at me; that was why the ladies I had known and liked avoided me, and no one could have spread that scandal but my husband. What chance had I against him—my word against his?
“Where was I to go? In all the world there was no one so utterly friendless and wretched. I thought heaven itself had worked a miracle in my favor when later on that day there came a letter from a London lawyer, a Mr. Hewson, saying that my aunt, Donna Maria de Borga, was dead, and had left all her money to me. It had been transmitted by her desire from Spain to England, and was ready for me any time I liked to claim it. At last, then, I had money, more than sufficient to live upon in the greatest comfort. I think no one was ever so grateful for a legacy as I felt then.
“An idea occurred to me. I resolved to go to London, and see this Mr. Hewson; perhaps he could advise me what to do. The more I thought of this plan the more advisable and prudent it appeared to me. I acted upon it. Sir Alfred had not given me much jewelry, but the little I possessed was made into a parcel, together with everything he had given me, and was sent to him. Then I bade farewell to the home I only remember with hatred and disgust.
“I went at once to the address in the letter—No. 10 Lincoln’s Inn. I found him there, and somewhat surprised to see me.
“‘I had no idea you would answer my letter in person, Lady Pelham,’ he said. ‘Sir Alfred is in town; I met him this morning.’
“‘I came because I wish to consult you on several matters. First of all, let us settle about my aunt’s legacy.’
“We did so. He told me the exact amount—how it should be invested; and I asked him to take my affairs in hand. Then I told him there was another and far graver matter on which I wished to consult him.
“‘I want to ask you,’ I said, ‘not only to be my lawyer, but my friend. Some people might laugh at the notion. I only say to you that I am the most desolate, the most wretched woman on the face of the earth. Will you be my friend?’
“He looked at me in utter surprise.
“‘Your husband, Lady Pelham, where is he?’
“‘He is my persecutor. I will tell you my story, Mr. Hewson. I ask you, strange, cruel, and incredible as it is, to believe me.’
“Then I gave him the letters I had received, and told him all that had passed. He looked incredulous.
“‘Pardon me, Lady Pelham,’ he said, ‘but is it really true?’
“‘Only too true,’ I answered.
“‘And you—pardon the question—you assure me, Lady Pelham, that you were merely on ordinary terms of intimacy with the Duke of Launceston?’
“‘I treated him as I did any other guest of my husband, no differently. No man could have been more perfectly indifferent to me.’
“‘Then there is not the least ground for this action?’ he continued.
“‘Not the slightest, not the faintest; there is no shadow of such a pretext.’
“Mr. Hewson sat silent for some minutes, then he said:
“‘Will you prepare to hear a very fatal truth, Lady Pelham, one that will darken your whole life?’
“‘Nothing can surprise or hurt me now,’ I replied.
“‘I must tell you that it is my opinion you have married a very wicked, designing man. I could almost believe that he had married you, seeing your beauty, for this very purpose.’
“‘He could not be so wicked,’ I cried; ‘no man living could be so lost to all honor and goodness!’
“‘Sir Alfred Pelham has run through one of the finest fortunes in England,’ he continued. ‘He has literally nothing left, for Pelham Court is mortgaged to its full value. He owes large sums of money, and, in my opinion, he had brought this charge against you merely to get large damages from the Duke of Launceston. He will employ clever and eloquent counsel, who will make thrilling speeches about his broken heart and ruined home; all you can do is to defend yourself.’
“‘He cannot be so infamous,’ I cried; ‘no man could—it is worse than murder! Better have slain me than seek to destroy my fair name. Who is to defend me?’
“‘If you like to leave the conduct of your defense in my hands, I will undertake it,’ he replied.
“And I cried to him, in my distress, that I would give Sir Alfred all my aunt’s money if he would but forego this cruel persecution.
“‘Do not make any such offer, Lady Pelham,’ he replied; ‘to those who do not know you it sounds like guilt.’
“He did me one more service, greater than any other he could have rendered me; he introduced me to his sister, who was kind enough to love me when no one else did, and has cared for me ever since.”
“Lady Pelham,” interrupted Kenelm Eyrle, “do you assure me that this infamous, diabolical story is true?”
“It is true,” she replied, “as are the stars in heaven. Patience a few minutes longer; I shall soon have told you all.”