Won at Last

Chapter I

A S the two friends were taking leave of -*--*- each other, Lord Armington saw a post-chaise drive into the yard, and Mr . Fair leigh get out and walk quickly up to them. " Ah, he has heard of the quarrel, and will endeavour to make it up, but he does not make much impression on the re jected lover," thought Lord Armington, as he saw the three friends enter the barracks. The result of this interview with Mr. Lethbridge was his return home, full of dis- VOL. II. B may and reproaches to his daughter for her base conduct, which has been told in a previous chapter. It was impossible just at that moment that either of the two friends could absent himself, otherwise Captain Morton would most willingly have accompanied the disappointed, miserable father on his journey home, for they both felt that in his failing health this bitter trial and disappointment must endanger his life.

And they were right, for he became so ill that two hours later, when he stopped to change horses at the halfway town, he could go no farther. He was, moreover, in such a state of helpless despondency that he felt in no hurry to return home ; and dreading the interview with his daughter, he thought it better to remain at this town for the nio-ht and travel the rest of the way in the morning. Captain Morton was not able to leave Minsterton till the next afternoon, and therefore could not arriveat Mrs. Bevan's house till near six o'clock. On his arrival at Yew-tree Lodge, he found to his disappointment that neither Mrs. Bevan nor Edith was at home. The servant said that they had received intelligence that a dreadful accident had happened to Mr. Fairleigh, and Miss Fairleigh had sent to beg that they would drive in to Suttonfields, where her father lay in the greatest danger, at Mistress Warburton's house.

" And is Mrs. Fairleigh gone there also?" inquired Captain Morton, who was horror struck at this sad news. "We have not heard, sir, of Mrs. Fair leigh since, though the messenger said that his missus was took with his-terics and gone a'most mad." Captain Morton had ridden from Minster ton, where he left the stage-coach, and he b determined to ride off to Suttonfields, try to see Edith, and ascertain what had really happened. Susan Warburton had spent some very anxious days and nights by her poor young niece's bedside, but on the morning of the third day she was so much better that the invalid persuaded her aunt to return home and rest, and promised to send for her again should she get worse. Therefore Susan Warburton determined to go, and just as she was ready to start, while wait ing at the door for her nephew's gig, she saw a crowd round a carriage and four horses, which was standing at the door of the new hotel, where she had heard that old Mr. Dalton of Delamere was staying.

On looking nearer, she saw the well-known Delamere quarterings on the carriage, and could distinguish the figure of the old man sitting in the corner propped up with pillows, and with a green shade over his eyes. Her niece's maid said that she had seen the old gentleman lifted into the carriage just before by two servants. Then a tall and gaily-dressed lady, with a thick veil over her face, entered the carriage, and two servants got up on the box. The door was slammed-to by the bowing innkeeper, and the horses started at full gallop. " Post-horses ! where can he be going ?" inquired Miss Warburton, half to herself. " Nurse Vincent says he's going to for eign parts, and that his own four black horses and coachmen were sent home to Delamere yesterday." " To foreign parts ! — what can all this mean ?" thought Susan ; but there was no time for inquiry, as her nephew's gig came up to the door at that moment, with the gardener, or rather the man-of -allwork, who was to drive her to the nearest town, where AVON AT LAST. . she was to catch the coach for Suttonfields.

Her nephew had been called away early that morning, to attend some sick person at a distance, so she could not tell him, as she would otherwise have done, to inquire at the hotel, and ascertain where the old gen tleman had gone. It also flashed through her mind, as she was driving out of the town, that there had been a wedding, the day before, at a village two miles off, and that her nephew had been sent for in a hurry to perform the ceremony, the clergyman of the parish hav ing been taken suddenly ill. " Could the old miser have possibly mar ried the handsome woman who was report ed to have unbounded influence over him ?" was the anxious thought which haunted her imagination most disagreeably during the journey home. When she arrived at Suttonfields, she dismounted from the coach at the inn, and walked quickly towards her own little house at the outskirts of the town.

As she ap proached the corner of a street from which she could see her own little garden and the gable-end of her house, which looked over it, she saw a great crowd of people near it. She rushed on, fearing some accident had happened, and then saw Dr. Nolan's carriage driving up at a furious rate from the other end of the street. The crowd made Avay for it Avith some difficulty, and Susan saw Dr. Nolan get out in a hurry and dis appear under the shade of her rose-covered passage across the garden. Of course she followed as quickly as possible, dreading lest her sister might have been suddenly taken ill ; but the great crowd of anxious faces around puzzled her, as did a feAV strange words which reached her ears, such as— "I'm sure it's too late," " He's killed," " The doctor '11 do he no good."

" What has happened ?" she inquired of the butcher's boy, who stood staring at her over the gate. " Oh, mistress, it's Mr. Fairleigh, what fell from his horse agin that there curbstone and cut his head terrible. I see'd un fall and helped to pick un up, and Jem Mason and I carried un in to your house, mistress, 'cause it was the nearest." Susan did not wait to hear more, but ran into her house, and saw through the open door of her little dining-room Dr. Nolan standing near the sofa, and there lay the apparently insensible form of the man to Avhom in her happy youth she had been en gaged. His eyes were closed, and the blood was flowing profusely from a deep wound on his forehead. Not a word was said while Dr. Nolan felt his pulse and careful ly examined the wound, and then Susan found that her sister had been carried down stairs, and was sitting in her wheeling chair at the other side of the room.

Dr. Nolan had fortunately been visiting a lady at the farther end of the town when the rumour of the accident reached him, so there had been very little delay ; and the servant, before he arrived, had, by Peggy's direction, endeavoured to get the wounded man to swallow some restorative.

Chapter II. Susan

could do nothing — she stood at the door as if spell-bound, watch ingthe doctor's movements. His back was turned to her, so that she could not see his face, or gather any hope from its expression. She was afraid to advance or stop, almost to breathe, lest she should disturb the sufferer, or have her worst fears confirmed. Still more did she dread lest the sufferer should recognise herself, and be thus reminded of former times and scenes which, unless he had learned to for get, must have marred the happiness of his apparently prosperous life. So deeply ab sorbed was she in her vivid memories of long ago that she seemed half insensible to the present, and for some moments did not even see the energetic gestures of her sister Peggy, who, her feelings being less deeply touched by past scenes, had pre sence of mind enough to perceive that Mr. Fairleigh's family ought to be informed of his dangerous state ; but as she was afraid to speak, and could not move off her chair, she had no means of communicating with her sister except by signs.

But when at last she caught her eye, Susan under stood at once, without a word being uttered, what ought to be done ; and she hurried softly out of the room, to despatch a messenger to Frampton Court. She also told the man to go afterwards to Yew tree Lodge, and inform Mrs. Bevan and Miss Freville of the accident. As she returned to the drawing-room she met Peggy, who was being wheeled out of it, as Dr. Nolan said that the sufferer must be quite quiet. The doctor said he would remain by Mr. Fairleigh till the surgeon arrived, for whom he had sent when he ascertained the extreme danger of the case. She must not then return to the room, and he had not seen her ! He might even die without recognising her, without being aware that one who had loved him deeply all through life was near. Although she had wished for his sake that he might not recognise her, yet she could not help long ing to see him, to meet his eyes once more, if it were only to convince him by her looks how entirely he was forgiven.

She had sent to Yew-tree Lodge for seve ral reasons — first, because she thought Edith's presence might be of some use to the wife and daughter when they came ; and secondly, because during her journey home she had resolved to inform the Fre- A*illes of the mysterious appearance of Mr. Dalton, and his departure for "foreign parts." Susan then helped her sister up to the drawing-room, and passed an hour of painful suspense, near the little bow-win doAV looking out on the garden, listen ing intently for any sound in the room beloAV. All was still — no sound reached her strainingears but the hum of bees amongthe flowers under the window. The crowd in the road outside had dispersed, so no one appeared in the little street. It w*as on one of the hot days towards the end of August, when, after a rainy Summer, the sun seems to oppress one with its fierce brightness ; and, as J. P. Richter says, when one is inclined to sad ness, there is nothing more oppressive than a cloudless midday sun in Midsummer.

But now the evening shadows began to creep along the rose-covered wall, and left the south bowwindow in shade ; and Susan remembered that Mrs. Fairleigh and her daughter might arrive at any moment. Of course they knew nothing of her for mer history, she thought ; or if by chance a rumour of it had reached their ears, it woiild never cross their minds at such an anxious moment as this. A carriage drove up to the garden-gate, but, strange to say, it was not Mrs. Fairleigh's. Mrs. Bevan and Edith stepped quickly out of it, and Susan went softly downstairs, to meet them in the garden passage. Then horses' footsteps were heard outside, and they saw Clarissa Fairleigh jump off her horse at the gate. " Am I too late ?" she inquired in breath less anxiety. " I coxild not wait for mam ma, but — but — I believe she is coming — where is he ?

Oh, take me to him." Susan led her towards the little dining room, and they found Dr. Nolan standing at the door. " Hush ! do not speak," he whispered to Clarissa; "but you may come in and sit quietly by his sofa. I am glad your mother did not come," he added, with a look of contempt. The fact was that Mrs. Fairleigh had been so bewildered and hysterical that she had seemed scarcely to know what she was doing. Clarissa had ordered the carriage to be got ready instantly, and wanted to start in it, but Mrs. Fairleigh had implored her to wait till she was somewhat recovered ; whereupon Clarissa had become impatient, and rushed out to the stable, where she found her own horse ready, as she had intended to ride that afternoon. She had immediately mounted it, and told the groom to follow. And hoav she stood by her father's side, not knowing whether he was alive or not.

His eyes were open, but he evidently did not see or know her, and then she turned her anxiously bewildered gaze on the doctor. He shook his head, but whispered softly, " He may live, but he has not recovered consciousness. Be calm — all de pends upon his being spared the least agi tation. Yes, you may hold his hand," he added, as he saw by the poor girl's tearless eyes how overwhelming the blow was to her. As she covered her father's cold hand with kisses her tears began to flow ; but she bravely checked her sobs, and tried to look hopeful in case he should become aware of her presence. Still holding his hand to her lips she knelt down and prayed, the first fervent prayer, the first vow, she had ever breathed. " Oh, if he would but recover, nothing would ever tempt me to offend him — to offend God again."

The passion ate anger, the fatal jealousy, which had marred her happiness and his, seemed now like some horrible dream, some fatal de lusion, which she could never feel again. She became aware now for the first time how deeply she loved her father, and was lost in astonishment to think how cruelly she had behaved, how Avantonly and use lessly she had broken his heart — all for the sake of revenge on Edith. The scales had fallen from her eyes, and she saw plainly how deeply she had wronged that simple girl. The silent hours she passed by her dying father made a deeper impression up on her, and developed her mind far more, than a long life had ever done to her mo ther ; and before the hours had passed she c VOL. became convinced that this bitter trial had been sent on purpose for her, and that it seemed to have altered her very nature.

Oh ! if her father could but look on her once more — that he might see the change and try to forgive. He would forgive if he could now read her heart ; but now another overwhelming thought strikes her mind, that Charles Lethbridge never could. Then she dismissed the thought of him, as if she felt it was sacrilege to be conscious of any other suffering, to regard any loss of happi ness in this world. It could — it ought to be nothing in comparison with this awful misfortune — the loss of her loving parent. A slight sound was heard outside the door ; she knew it was her mother's voice, and she dreaded her presence ; and yet this was, she knew, a selfish feeling, for surely her poor mother had a right to be with her husband now. Dr. Nolan had left Clarissa alone with her father, but he now entered the room, to see how the patient was, before he admitted Mrs. Fairleigh, for he feared lest she should not be able to control her feelings.

She was shocked indeed to see the change on her husband's face ; and she had so long accustomed herself to look upon him as a kind of impediment to her rise in the world of fashion, and also as a daily re proach to her for her selfish perversity, that her feelings were more stirred than even Dr. Nolan had expected. " Poor man, what a miserable life must have been his !" thought the doctor, when he saw the dull look of half bewilderment, half horror which contorted Mrs. Fair leigh's still handsome features. Then he looked on the daughter, and his experienced eye and acute knowledge of human nature derived hope from the c2 intensity of suffering he saw depicted on the beautiful girl's face. The mixture of calmness and despair — of self-reproach and longing for pardon, which alternated in the speaking eyes, during the inquiring looks she now and then directed towards him, convinced him that this sorrow would be for her advantage in her future life.

Chapter III. II

1 EANWHILE Edith and Mrs. Bevan J_Y_L remained in the room upstairs with the Warburtons ; and, soon after Mrs. Fairleigh came, Edith, who was looking out of window without seeing anything, was startled to hear a well-known voice ask whether Miss Freville was there. The question was asked in such a low, hushed tone that it did not reach any of the occupants of the bowwindow except herself ; but Susan Warburton saw, by the sudden expression of delight on Edith's face, that some one had arrived, and di vined the cause of her blushing joy. " The extreme of happiness and the depths of sorrow," thought Susan, as she crept softly downstairs, that she might see if her supposition was right ; and if so, she determined, with the thoughtful sympathy for others which had adorned her life, to take Captain Morton into the little Summer house — which was placed, as in very old fashioned gardens, at the corner of the garden-wall — that the young people might have a conversation together out of hearing of that house of woe.

They had not met since the day he proposed to her ; this she remembered, and knew that there would be much to say and to know. She found him in the passage outside, hesitating whether he should make his presence known, feeling sudden misgivings that he ought not to have intruded or ex- AVON AT LAST. 23 pected to see Edith in this house of woe, where her friend was watching in anxious suspense by the side of her dying father. Susan Warburton read all this in his expressive face, and, as she warmly shook his hand, she whispered, " Come with me across the garden, and I will bring her to you ; for she is not with her poor friend — she has not yet seen Miss Fairleigh or her mother." " Then she does not know the worst?" "What do you mean? What can be worse than the sad state of her father ?" " That which, I fear, may have caused this awful calamity.

Mr. Fairleigh left Sandbaye yesterday morning in a state of mind which, in his bad health, we greatly feared might prove fatal, and it seems that he ventured to mount his horse after a most painful interview he had with his daugh ter." " Oh ! that is much worse. Then I will hasten to send Edith, that you may explain all this, and she may then be better pre pared to be of use to her friend, after the last sad moment, which I fear is coming too quickly, has arrived." "Yes; and that is why I ventured to come. " I quite understand," said Susan, as she preceded him up the little green, moss covered flight of steps which led to the old Summer-house, and unlocked the door. It was a little square room, Avith windows at two sides, and there was a table covered with books and waitings ; for Su san often came there to read, and pursue her favourite studies in this quiet spot.

The little window looked out on a clear stream, which encircled half the garden ; and as it was the last residence at that end of Suttonfields, nothing was visible but a pretty, though homely and rather flat country. Captain Morton stood at the window which overlooked the little river, and the rippling sound of the water, as it turned the rocky corner below, reminded him pleasantly of the spot at Yew-tree Lodge where he first met Edith. "What a happy sound !" he thought, as he looked out, " and how joyously the butterflies are hoA*ering amid the sweet jessamine flowers !" Then he felt a kind of self-reproach at the consciousness of his own great joy in the near proximity of a dying friend. In a few moments he heard Edith's light step on the stones outside. He opened the door, and her beaming yet tearful eyes looked into his once more.

For some moments the bliss of meeting, after such a long absence, was too intense to be alloyed even by the painful scene which was passing near. But, as they gradually began to talk of all that had happened since they met, they both felt half ashamed of their own selfish happiness. Captain Morton then told her of the strange and fatal letter Clarissa had sent to him, and that he feared she had marred her own happiness, and forfeited the deep love of the man she had accepted. " Oh, no !" exclaimed Edith, " she loves him truly, I am certain ; and after this trial, if she loses her dear father, she will — oh ! she must then see plainly her fault, and become in time worthy of him. Do not let him quite despair. She was jealous of me — she could not help it, for I seemed to deprive her of your admiration.

She was never crossed or contradicted in any of her fancies from earliest childhood, therefore she must find it very difficult to — to do what is right ;. but she loves her father, I know, and if — if she should lose him, she will suffer so much that she will become quite different." " I think that is very likely ; but, unfortunately, Charles was so enthusiastic about her, and his disappointment is so great, that he is inconsolable. I fear these southern natures are so violent that they do not easily forgive, still less could he forget what she has done. I fear we can never even persuade him to see her again. But now, as to this mysterious walk by moonlight. You must explain." " Ah ! that is just what I long to tell you, for it seems to me very important." She then related all the circumstances of her expedition to her grandfather with her old nurse, and her apprehensions that the poor man was in a dying state ; her own and her nurse's conviction that he seemed almost dead, and -her surprise at Miss Warburton's account of his appearance at Snowville Baths, and the news that he had started on a foreign tour.

Edith declared that she was most anxi ous to visit the old place again with Cap tain Morton, and see whether it was not some horrible trick, for the nurse main tained it was impossible he could be fit to travel the next day. She could not be lieve he had really travelled to Snowville, and was going abroad. Captain Morton agreed with Edith that it would be better to investigate it, and recommended her to write and ask her mother's advice on the matter. " She had better come and go with you," he said, " and I might perhaps be able to accompany you both, for it has often occurred to me that some means should be found to communicate with the old gentle man, and that the servants, who seemed to rule all his actions so strangely, should if possible be dismissed." Edith then explained her fears lest her foolish evasion, the shrinking and stupidity which prevented her from telling Clarissa what Mrs. Bevan had told her to say, might have confirmed the unfortunate girl in her jealous fears that Charles Leth bridge in his moonlight walk really met her on purpose.

" I had intended to say exactly the Arery words Mrs. Bevan told me," said Edith with tears in her eyes, "but — the moment I saw Clarissa's suspicious and angry looks I forgot it all, and only declared that I could not tell the truth." " Of course you could not say what was not true, and I should have been very sorry if you had." " Then I was really not wrong ?" " Certainly not, for if Miss Fairleigh had not sufficient confidence in you to know that you would tell her the real circum stances of the case, had it been possible, she would not have been better satisfied if you had been able to make up a plausi ble story about it." " But you are thinking of something else, and you look anxious." " Yes, I am indeed ; for just as I was leaving Sandbaye I heard that we should probably be sent to India, and then how will you like to leave your mother and all your friends, and have no one you care for but myself ?

Ah ! I knew it must be so — the idea makes you wretched." " No, it was only the suddenness, for I never thought of the possibility, which was very foolish," said Edith, while a hopeful, joyous smile brightened up the tears that would still glisten in her eyes. "I suppose no happiness in this world can be quite without alloy." "And you love your parents, and all your poor villagers, so deeply that of course the trial of parting will be most fearful. I might exchange, but the loss of income would be perhaps more than I ought in justice to you to incur, particularly as I find your father will lose much by some mortgage which he will soon be obliged to pay off." " That is indeed the case," said Edith, "and it has caused great anxiety to him and poor mamma, how to avert another portion of the poor old Freville property from being sold.

It has been the great object of his life to try to pay off the in cumbrances left by his grandfather on the estates." " And Mr. Dalton has never helped in any way, and gave your mother no fortune at all ? What a strange man he must be !" " Strange indeed ; and Miss Warburton has also just told me of an idea that enter ed her mind, in consequence of having heard that a wedding took place, in a church two miles off, the day he was at Snowville; and her description of the smartly-dressed lady who was sitting in the carriage with him is unpleasantly like the handsome woman w*e saw take the keys from under his pillow, and change some papers in the old cabinet." "All the more reason for watching the state of affairs at Delamere ; and it is most fortunate that your old nurse knows of a secret entrance."

"Then of course Mr. Lethbridge will also be obliged to go, if your regiment should really be ordered to India ? Ah, how sad for Clarissa! unless she, and unless he could be induced to forgive ; and if her mother should induce her to marry Lord Armingtou, she will be entirely spoilt, and quite miserable." " You must save her from that ; and see, there is the very man actually coming along the trellised passage !" said Captain Mor ton, as he pointed through the Summer house window which overlooked the garden. " He probably saw by poor Charles's countenance that his hopes of happiness had ended, and that he would now have another chance." " And probably Mrs. Fairleigh wrote to recall him," said Edith ; " so he must have gone to Frampton, and there heard the sad news. And look, there is Mrs. Fairleigh's carriage driving up to the gate !

Surely she cannot intend to leave her husband ! — or can it be do let us go and inquire," exclaimed Edith; "perhaps I might pos sibly be of some use to Clarissa." VOL. II. d

Chapter IV

TT^DITH'S dreaded surmise proved true ■*-* — the last sad moment had come and passed away. Mr. Fairleigh had regained his consci ousness a few moments before his death. He was not able to speak, but he suddenly became conscious of his daughter's presence, and looked earnestly at her counte nance. It is probable that the deep feeling of remorse from which she had suffered so painfully during the last long hours of dire suspense had left an indelible expression on her features ; and with the quick perception often bestowed in the last moments of life, he read plainly all her thoughts and resolutions ;'for the approving smile he bestowed was the one bright spot she remembered, with never-ending grati tude, through the whole of her life. She felt that he had forgiven her, and that he was praying for her with his whole heart.

She saw that his lips moved, though no word was uttered ; his whole attention appeared to be centred on herself, till suddenly a sound in the passage seemed to startle him into a consciousness of surrounding objects, and his eyes rested, with a look of wonder as well as pleasure, on a picture opposite the sofa, which had just be come lighted up by .a brillient ray of sun shine. Doctor Nolan, who had been watching him attentively, saw and divined the cause of his wondering look, and said in a low voice, d "Yes, that is a vieAV of Stirling Priory — old Mr. Warburton's place, and this house belongs to his daughters. Do not try to speak or move, and I -will bring her to see you." " Oh ! do so," whispered Clarissa, as she anxiously looked round to see whether her mother had seen and understood what was passing, and was relieved to find that Mrs. Fairleigh still reclined in the easy-chair, with her hand over her eyes.