Читать книгу Branded, or, The Daughters of a Convict - Gerald Biss - Страница 8

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It was with a heavy heart that Mrs. Chichele left the Temple and drove home, almost wishing that the drive would never end. But all too soon she found herself back in Cadogan Place; and she set her teeth with determination as she entered the house.

"Ask Miss Phyllis and Miss Doris to join me in the boudoir," she said to the butler as he opened the door.

She went straight upstairs and took off her hat before meeting the twins in her own special room—a cosy corner, full of comfort and cushions.

She found them waiting for her there, and kissed them warmly.

"I had to go out early this morning on business," she explained, by way of breaking the ice, taking her usual seat on the corner of the couch. "Now sit down, children, as I have something very serious to tell you, which will take a little time."

Doris, looking paler than usual under her freckles, took the corner opposite to her; and Phyllis threw herself into her favorite low armchair, lolling back.

"What I am going to say to you," began Mrs. Chichele rather nervously, "will, I am afraid, make a great difference to your lives; and I would have kept it to myself, if circumstances did not make it impossible."

She paused for an instant; and both girls regarded her with an anxious curiosity.

"I don't suppose," she went on, in a low, level voice, steeling herself to the ordeal, "that it has ever occurred to either of you that you might be anything but what you have always thought yourselves; but now the time has come when I must tell you frankly who you are. To begin with, you are only my nieces by adoption, though," she added gently, to break the blow, "I could not love you more dearly if you were my own daughters."

As she spoke she took Doris' hand and pressed it affectionately. Both the girls were listening attentively—Doris quietly and anxiously, and Phyllis with a vague uncomfortable curiosity; but neither spoke.

"I have always tried to make up to you both for the lack of a mother; and I hope I have to some extent succeeded. You came to me under peculiar circumstances, and since then my whole life has been bound up in you and your happiness. Fifteen years ago my dear husband died, leaving me a widow with an empty heart—no children, no ties, and plenty of money; and my lonely life craved for something to love. It was just at that time I heard of two little girls left motherless under peculiarly sad circumstances, and—and I came forward and offered to adopt them. My offer was accepted, and from that day forward your real identity has been sunk in that of my own twin nieces. That is what the world thinks you both, and no one has any suspicion to the contrary."

She paused again, wondering how to go on; and Doris took the hand she held and kissed it with a passionate reassurance of gratitude and love.

"Your mother, however, is not dead," went on Mrs. Chichele; and both the girls started in surprise. "But to the world she has been dead fifteen years. Have you ever heard of Mrs. Jerningham?" she asked abruptly.

"The murderess!" exclaimed Phyllis, sitting up sharply; and Doris' grip tightened on Mrs. Chichele's hand.

"Yes," said Mrs. Chichele, in a low voice; "but I, in common with many thousands of others, have never believed her guilty. Mrs. Jerningham is your mother, my dear, dear children; and I have tried as long as possible to keep this from you."

For a moment there was a stunned silence. Then Phyllis broke out:

"No one will marry us if our mother is a murderess."

"Hush, dear," said the older woman, gently; "that is not the only thing to think of. I daresay you have both read something of the case lately owing to the agitation which has been raised in the papers over her pending release. Fifteen years ago your mother was accused of having poisoned your father, and convicted on purely circumstantial evidence in the teeth of public opinion. She was sentenced to death and reprieved; and since them she has been in Aylesbury Gaol, serving a sentence of penal servitude for life. But in the supreme moment of her life her one thought was for her children and their future. It was then that I came forward anonymously and offered to adopt you. She most gratefully accepted the offer, stipulating only that you should never know who your mother was. Her words were: 'I wish my children to think me dead.' And her love for you has always been most tender, constant, and passionately unselfish."

"Poor, poor mother," murmured Doris, half to herself.

"Her one desire," went on Mrs. Chichele, "was never to enter your lives, as she knew that any knowledge of the past must cast a shadow over you; but fate has proved stronger than her wish. The very last time that I saw her, just before she was sent from Aylesbury down to Cornwall, she reiterated this particular point over and over again; and I promised solemnly to keep her secret. But I overlooked the fact that you were both grown up, and that with your beauty and your money—for the bulk of your father's fortune was divided between you—the question of marriage must inevitably arise. And it could not be right or even possible that you could go to husbands who did not know the truth."

"I don't see any reason why anyone need know," broke in Phyllis, hotly, "or why our lives should be ruined because of our mother. We are not responsible for her crime."

Mrs. Chichele looked pained at her ready acceptance of her mother's guilt, and spoke very sharply.

"I had given you credit for better feeling, Phyllis. Besides, you could not be married under any name but your own, and that in itself would reveal everything."

"Why not?" asked Phyllis, abruptly. "It wouldn't invalidate the marriage, would it?"

Mrs. Chichele took no further notice of her interruption.

"The fact remains," she went on decidedly, "that any man would have to be told the whole truth. It is the only honorable course. That would, as you must see, put him in a very invidious position. I do not say that I would not have you marry a man provided that he loved you and you loved him, if he were still anxious to do so with his eyes open; but this, as your guardian, I must insist on—that either you or I tell the secret of your birth before any engagement takes place. Without that there could be no happiness in marriage; and I would as soon see you both in your graves."

Mrs. Chichele spoke warmly, showing great feeling; and Phyllis was silent in the face of her words, only shrugging her shoulders almost imperceptibly.

"There is no reason for you to take your mother's guilt for granted. Lord O'Brien, the late Chief Justice, who defended her, most strenuously believed in her innocence, and worked up to the time of his death to obtain a revision of the sentence. Mr. Bramber, who assisted him in the defence, is equally of the opinion that your mother was the victim of circumstantial evidence, and he is now preparing an appeal to the Home Secretary to be presented upon her release. I saw him this morning, and asked his advice how to act in this matter, telling him frankly who you were."

Both girls started.

"Yes," went on Mrs. Chichele, "you could have no better friend; and he is keenly interested in you both. But he agrees with me that any serious suitor must be told everything before an engagement would be justifiable."

"Only this week," said Doris, in a low voice, speaking for the first time, "I was reading on account of the case in one of the papers; and, little knowing how we were affected by it, I said to Phyllis that I could not believe Mrs. Jerningham guilty."

"That is right, dear," said Mrs. Chichele, tenderly. "Continue to think that, and you will be happier for the belief."

"To me," said Phyllis, coldly, "the whole thing seemed as plain as a pike-staff. If she didn't do it, who did?"

"You are hardly in a position to judge," answered Mrs. Chichele; "and do not in the first flush of excitement say things you will afterwards regret."

"I shall regret nothing," said Phyllis, calmly. "I am not the least bit excited. I am thinking what it is best to do under the circumstances."

And there was a pause; and then Mrs. Chichele spoke in a voice full of emotion.

"I can't tell you how grieved I am, my dear, dear children, to have to bring this cloud into your lives. I have tried to make your girlhood as happy as possible, and I have tried to be a mother to you as far as possible. And remember, dears, I am still and always shall be your aunt."

"How good you have been to us!" exclaimed Doris, throwing her arms round her and kissing her passionately several times. "We owe everything to you."

Even Phyllis unbent, and crossed the room to kiss her with as much warmth as she could muster in her disappointment.

"You have been very good to us," she said, in a dull, almost expressionless voice.

"Oh, if you only knew what a joy it has been to me, and how I loved you!" said Mrs. Chichele, with a break in her voice; and, kissing them hastily, she left the room.

For a moment the twins did not speak.

"That's why we were not presented, like other girls," burst out Phyllis scornfully, after a pause. "The Lord Chamberlain would naturally object to the daughters of a convict, so he was wisely never given the chance."

"Don't," said Doris, sharply. "That's a very minor matter."

"Poof," said Phyllis; "I think it counts for a good deal. We are branded with a broad arrow, whether we like it or not, and no one will marry us now."

"But think of all Mrs. Jer——our mother, I mean—has suffered," interposed Doris.

"Only what she deserved," said Phyllis, harshly. "I don't see any particular reason for doubting her guilt. I didn't before I knew who she was, and I don't now. I hate this mealy-mouthed sentiment. Mother or no mother, Mrs. Jerningham is nothing to me, and I am not going to let it spoil my life more than I can help."

"What do you mean?" asked Doris, in a shocked voice.

"Oh, I suppose now I shall have to marry Lionel; that's what I mean. I shan't be able to do any better now, and he won't ask any questions. He'll only be too glad to have me—and I shan't be such a fool as to tell him. What are you going to do about Ralph Shopwyke?"

"I shall write and tell him that it was all a big mistake," said Doris, in a low voice. "I shan't tell him the reason, as I know he'd say it made no difference; but he might feel it later on in life, and I love him too well to wait to spoil his life. And besides, our mother will soon be free, and she will need someone to look after her; and I'd like to try and make up as far as possible for all she has suffered."

"You always were a sentimental little fool, Doris," exclaimed Phyllis contemptuously; "but, of course, you can do as you like with your life. I've only one life myself, and I am going to get the most enjoyment out of it that I can."

"You talk as though you had no heart at all," protested Doris.

"I'm not sure that I have got much," answered Phyllis, lightly; "and in this wicked world it's each for himself, and devil take the hindermost. I'm not going to be last in the race of life, I can assure you. Why don't you tell Ralph Shopwyke if you won't marry him without?" she went on speciously, suggesting the very thing she least desired in order to strengthen Doris' resolve. "I'm not sure he's fool enough to marry you in spite of everything—and Mrs. Jerningham, too, for that matter! And then you'd be perfectly happy!"

"I am sure he would," said Doris, with frank confidence; "but I am not going to blight his life and his prospects. It would be too utterly selfish, and—and, well, he might regret it afterwards later on in life. No," she concluded, speaking calmly with a great effort, "I'll—I'll go and write him now, and tell him that it was all—all a great mistake."

There was a catch in her voice as she concluded, and without another word she left the room before her courage failed her.

Left to herself, Phyllis' lip curled slightly. The deeper emotions always bored her and excited her contempt.

"I must write Lionel to meet me in the park this afternoon," she murmured to herself. "I must strike while the iron is hot, and not lose any time."