Page:Once a Week Volume 7.djvu/68

60 “Dear Violet, be calm; he comes for one last moment to see you, to hear your own lips pronounce his pardon—to see once more his child—”

“What of that—what of that?” Violet asked, almost fiercely. The baby was on the sofa now, curled up, calm, beautiful, quite unconscious of the great grief afflicting those so near to it. “He would not take it from me? It is all mine now; it is all I have in the world now! It is for my baby only that I wish to live, my poor baby, who has no father now—my poor baby, who has no one now to look to for comfort, and support, and protection; no one but a wretched mother, whom, by-and-by, he will be taught to hate.” She bent over the child as though to shield it from harm. “He has not come to take my child from me?”

“No, dearest, be calm; he never dreamt of such a cruel thing. But to kiss it, Violet; he may do that. He is poor baby’s father—”

“Yes, his father—he may see his child.”

“And you will see him, Violet? He is greatly changed—so broken—so utterly prostrate and wretched—say one kind word to him, Violet, before he goes away—for ever—for ever, Violet.”

“Yes,” she said, after a pause, and in a calmer voice, “I will see him.”

“No, it is impossible. I forbid it!” cried Mr. Fuller, solemnly and sternly as he entered the room. “This man shall not again enter my house. Has he not brought suffering enough already? Would he insult his victim? Does he dare to cross my threshold again? I will not answer for his life! Violet, my dearest, this must not be—I cannot suffer it!”

“Father, have mercy,” she said, as she threw her arms round his neck: “there is no fear; but one moment, and then he will have gone from me for ever! Whatever he has done, he is my husband before God. Be not alarmed for me. I have more courage than you think. Trust in me, father: a short time and all will be over, for ever!”

The old man could seldom act in opposition to her wishes; least of all now. He suffered himself to be led from the room by Madge. Violet watched him to the door. She turned, to behold the figure of Wilford Hadfield standing at the window.

He tottered rather than walked into the room.

“Violet! Violet!” he cried, in a strange hollow voice. He sunk upon his knees—more he intended probably to say—his lips moved as though in an attempt at utterance; though no sound came, yet with outstretched imploring arms, his action was as eloquent as speech.

Greatly troubled, swaying to and fro, her hands clasped together with convulsive energy, Violet stood for a moment irresolute, gazing wildly at him.

Suddenly she raised her eyes. She then perceived another person standing at the window. The fire burned up brightly at the moment, and lit up the room.

What was it she read in the face of this man at the window? What meant that sudden change that came over her? She was breathing so quickly she could scarcely speak, and her hands were pressing her heart. “My husband!” she seemed to gasp out at last—an almost delirious question.

“Yes, your husband!—for he is your husband—your true and lawful husband.”

George Martin was the speaker.

“What are you saying?” cried Wilford, in a scared, dazed way.

“The truth. I have come all this way to tell it. You were too busy to hear the galloping of my horse. I have come full speed. Can you bear to hear me?”

He glanced from one to the other. How greedily they seemed to drink in his words. As calmly and distinctly as he was able, Martin continued.

“You have been both victims of a cruel and shameful conspiracy and fraud. The marriage with Regine Pichot is void. Be assured that it is so. I hold the proofs in my hand. At the time of that marriage, Regine was already the wife of one Lenoir, formerly a medical student of Paris, late a singer in the chorus of the Grand Opera, Brussels, and now spy and agent of police in the employment of the French Government. From the lips of the woman Regine, and the man Lenoir, I have gathered this day a confession of their history. Any claim made by the woman is one founded upon imposture. The marriage has been all along utterly void. Wilford Hadfield, you are the lawful husband of Violet Fuller.”

A moment, to obtain firm mental grasp of this intelligence—to gather from Martin’s earnest face confidence in its truth—then Violet was locked in the embrace of her husband.

“My own Violet!” cried Wilford, “pardon me—pity me—love me, ever!”

“My husband!” and she pressed him to her heart, how fondly.

Martin drew back from a scene upon the sacred nature of which his presence seemed to be a trespass!

—Monsieur Chose, as he had playfully named himself at an early period of this narrative—was as good as his word. He had called upon George Martin at his chambers in the Temple. With the important information derived from the Frenchman, Martin had hurried to the house in Freer Street, but he arrived there only in time to encounter the earnest lamentations of Mr. Phillimore and the faithful Rembrandt over the recent departure of Wilford and his sister-in-law. He of course concluded that his friends had journeyed to Grilling Abbots. Martin had then hastened to the railway station; he found, however, that he was too late for the train which had conveyed his friends into the country. He had to wait some hours before there was another train to Mowle. He knew the importance of the intelligence he had obtained, while he dreaded the consequences that might be involved in any delay in communicating upon the subject with those most interested. Arrived at Mowle, late in the day, he had at once taken horse and proceeded to Grilling Abbots with all possible speed. The events that followed his appearance at the doctor’s cottage have already been related.