Lydia Trent (20 page)

“
I
had sunk so low as prison, and Martin Parrish's offer, to secure my
release from both prison and the encumbrance of a daughter I had
forgotten how to love, I greeted with open arms. And so I played that
shabby trick upon you, Catherine, and took myself off to the
antipodes basely hugging myself for what I thought was my good
fortune.

“
I
started out on a sheep station, and then when gold was found I took
myself off to the diggings to try my luck. I did not prosper at
first, as I soon found out that a gold mine is not a good place for a
habitual drunkard. A besotted man cannot get the best claim, and he
is cheated and robbed at every turn.

“
And
so I gave up drinking, and threw myself into my work. It was slow at
starting, but I had a few pieces of good fortune, and so I
persevered. But it was a lonely life. The man I ended up going into a
company with – for it is very hard to mine and defend a claim alone
– had a family, a wife and two young daughters. I found myself
watching those two little girls as they played around the diggings,
and fell to wondering what had become of my own girls. My companion
was injured, and I saw how tenderly he was nursed by his wife, and
how lovingly his girls came and made sunshine for papa, and it
finally came to me just what I had lost.

“
There
was also a parson at the diggings, who had come out and started a
sort of church in a tent. I had never had much truck with the church
before, but this good father found me when I was low, and through
kind words, which rebuked me, but showed me love and compassion, led
me into a penitent spirit.

“
And
so I came home, and tried to find you. I had some inkling of my
second wife's whereabouts, and found her easily enough, but she would
not at first tell me anything of either of you. I had seen Adeline,
but had frightened her, and Evelyn warned me not to approach you
again if I wished to know where Catherine was. At last she told me
news of you could be found at the Lambscourt Hotel in London, and
there I went as fast as I could. I was met by a gentleman who was
welcoming at first, and poured me a drink, and professed to know all
about you, but when I tried to move, I found myself faint and drowsy
– I believe the drink must have been drugged. And then... then I
woke up here with you, and was informed a year had passed without my
knowing it.

“
Girls,
my daughters, I cannot hope for your forgiveness – I have done you
both too great a wrong for that. I cannot hope to stand in a father's
place to you, for I have been worse than no father at all. The money
I made at the diggings in Australia, I came to place entirely at your
disposal – not that money is any recompense, but the only fatherly
action I can now perform is to provide for my daughters.”

“
Oh,
father, on my part there is nothing to forgive!” wept Adeline,
kissing the sick man's hand.

Catherine
hesitated a moment, but then laid her hand on Adeline's shoulder as
she leaned over the pale, wasted form of her father.

“
You
did me a great and cruel wrong when you tricked me into marrying
Martin Parrish, father,” she said slowly, her eyes burning with
repressed emotion, “But yes, I give you my forgiveness likewise.”

“
Then
I have nothing left on this Earth to wish for.” said their father,
and, sinking back on his pillows, closed his eyes, with a calmer
expression than he had worn for days.

“
All
through this weary fever, I have seen my Adeline calling to me –
'where are my girls, Malcolm?' - now I can answer her.” and he was
silent, and before long lapsed back into sleep.

He
roused again when the doctor came, and was able to give that
gentleman the details of his true identity, as well as the direction
of his banker in London, who held his will and other important
documents as well as the money he had raised at the Australian gold
fields. The doctor took down these particulars, and then examined
him. Alas, there were some disturbing hectic symptoms becoming
apparent – Mr Wade was flushed, his eye bright and feverish. The
doctor ordered another draught, and advised the patient to sleep as
much as he could, while the girls, his nurses, were to pursue the
same cooling treatment as before.

It
was to no avail – Mr Wade suffered a relapse. He lingered several
days more, and the doctor and the girls laboured manfully to bring
him through, but it was no use. The sick man was sinking hourly, and
in the early hours of the fourth day, he breathed his last. The
doctor railed against the murderous practice of bleeding, and the
girls quietly knelt and prayed that their father would find
forgiveness in heaven as easily as he had on Earth.

Malcolm
Wade was buried in a quiet churchyard close to his lodgings, and when
his will and papers were examined, it was found he had left Catherine
and Adeline the possessors of over thirty thousand pounds, to be
shared equally between them.

What
of the house at Bayswater, while this drama had been taking place?
Uncle John was concerned by his nieces taking so much upon
themselves, but he acknowledged both Catherine's right to nurse her
father, and Lydia's being the more suitable to assist her.

In
the meantime he sent every comfort he could think of, both for the
patient and his nurses, along with loving messages and injunctions
not to overtax themselves – a professional nurse could easily be
hired if they felt the work was affecting their health. He also
coddled and amused Adeline, who was fast fretting herself into ill
health. That young lady was sadly disturbed in spirits, even going as
far as being – for the first time - cross and pettish to her
beloved Alfred, when that gentleman had the temerity to claim her
attention from her father and sisters, to his latest piece, which was
to be published, and for which he was to receive the princely sum of
five pounds, and of which he was immensely proud.

The
return of Catherine and Lydia to the house was therefore felt to be a
great blessing by all. John Trent, though he had had the pleasure of
their company for only a few months, had fast come to value – nay,
to rely on - the society of the sensible, intelligent, gentle young
ladies. He enjoyed their conversation, and their softening, homely
presence at his fireside. In their turn, Lydia loved him for her
father's sake, while Catherine respected him for his own.

Alas,
their return did not seem to have much positive effect on either
Adeline's health or her spirits. Without any positive malady, both
continued low and a little weak. Mr Trent spoke of spending some time
by the seaside, however, once the weather was more settled, and all
hoped this would improve matters.

The
three young ladies resumed their quiet life, with some relief, for
both Lydia and Catherine were very tired from the past few hard
weeks. Alfred visited three or four times a week, bringing news of
his little successes, which brought a proud flush to the cheeks of
both Adeline and Lydia. Though she still idolised Alfred as much as
ever, there seemed to have crept into their relationship a note of
dissention – but this could easily be attributed to Adeline's poor
health.

In
the midst of this tranquil respite, peace was disturbed by the
receipt of a thick letter from Allenham. It had come addressed to Mr
Trent in an unknown feminine hand, and when he opened it, he found a
second envelope, along with a note from one of Evelyn's nurses.

'Dear
Mr Trent,' it began,

I
am sorry to trouble you with this letter, but I have promised my
patient, and so I must send it on. Mrs Trent has been quite calm and
lucid, of late, and has spent many hours in her room writing this
letter to her stepdaughters. I beg you will read it, and decide
whether it ought to be given to the young ladies.

And
oblige,

Mrs
Mary Haig'

This
little epistle Mr Trent dropped into Lydia's lap, with the longer
envelope, still sealed.

“
I
have not read it, you see. I thought that by rights you ought to be
the first to see what your stepmother has to say for herself. I trust
your good sense – share what ought to be shared with Adeline.”

“
Thankyou,
uncle John.” said Lydia, but she did not at once open the letter.
Instead she put it into her pocket, with the intent of reading it
before she retired to bed.

The
day was uneventful, and Lydia retired quite early, the better to read
her stepmother's letter. She broke the seal, and removed several
sheets of paper, which, along with the envelope, were closely covered
in Evelyn's elegant Italian hand. Lydia snuffed the candle and began
to read.

'Miss
Trent, Miss Ward,' was the bald and unpromising salutation.

'I
shall not explain my motives in writing this letter – suffice it to
say I wish to tell you my history. If you wish to believe me
penitent, then pray do so, though I may say I have no desire to be
thought so, and no feeling of regret for any action in my past life,
save one, from which all the others sprung.

I
was born Evelyn Consett, and I think you will agree I have risen in
the world when I tell you I was born in a prison, where my father was
confined for debt.

I
spent the first ten years of my life in gaol, until my mother managed
to prevail upon an aunt of hers, who kept a girls school, to give me
a home. This lady consented, on the condition that from the day I
passed under her roof, I was to forget my parents entirely. My elder
brother, Nathan, had been similarly provided for, having been
apprenticed to a distant connection of my mother's who was in trade.
Of course, the injunction against our parents was not hard to keep –
it was hard enough that I was never allowed to forget I was a charity
pupil, without thinking of a family in gaol. So, from that day hence,
I considered myself an orphan. My mother wrote to me on several
occasions, but I returned her letters unopened.

By
the time I was eighteen, I had learned all that my great-aunt could
teach me, and was earning my keep by teaching the younger children.
How tedious I found those lessons, how tiresome those stupid little
girls! I longed to be free, and so I answered an advertisement for a
situation as governess in an aristocratic private family.

I
got the place, and was speedily installed in my new duties. I will
not go into detail about my time with the Hawkeshursts – suffice it
to say that the three years I spent there did nothing to lessen my
dislike of children. The tiresome, spoiled brats I had in my charge
were accounted by many to be fine, affectionate, clever children –
I never found them so.

I
was a handsome woman even at nineteen, and, with my comely figure and
complaisant manners, I soon caught the eye of Montague Hawkeshurst,
the eldest son of the family, who was then three-and-twenty, and
enjoying the life of a gentleman of leisure. How I loved to hear his
stories of parties and balls, curricle-races and cock-fights. It was
a breath of fresh air. Of course I found him an ignorant little
puppy, but I was flattered by is attentions, and the presents he made
me were a valuable addition to my miserable salary, and so I did
little to discourage him.

Like
the inexperienced little fool I was, I made sure he meant to marry
me, and so was led into a closer intimacy than was prudent. Alas, he
cruelly wronged me. As a result, he was sent off on a tour of the
continent – I thought – while I lost my situation, and was
brought to bed some three months later of a stillborn child. Boy or
girl, I do not know, I never saw it, nor troubled to enquire.

I
had enough savings from my salary, along with the money I realised
from the sale of various trinkets Montague had given me, to live in
frugal comfort for some time. After a while, however, I began to be
uneasy about my precarious situation, and to look about me for some
means of support.

At
about that time I met Mr Wade – we had barely been acquainted six
weeks when he asked me to marry him, telling me even then that he had
no heart to offer, but could give me a home and freedom from want, at
least. I had not seen or heard of Montague for more than a year, and
so I acquiesced.

We
had been married a year, when I heard that Montague had returned to
his old home. His father had died, and he was now possessor of the
family estate, along with a very pretty income. Seeing my chance, I
took Adeline, who was but a month or two older than my child would
have been, and presented myself to Montague's notice. I told him that
Adeline was our child, and called on him to make restitution to
myself and his daughter. Alas, I was too late – Montague had
married a Spanish lady on his tour abroad, and was even now preparing
for the homecoming of the new Mrs Hawkeshurst. With what sinking
feelings of anger and dismay did I hear these tidings! All that ought
to have been mine – a handsome house, money, a place in the highest
society – were given to another. Some foreign cocotte was now the
posessor of all these advantages, while I had nothing but a stained
name.