"Madame la d.u.c.h.esse is under this roof, to which she fled for refuge direct from London!"
"Can this be possible, madam?"
"It is true! To whom, indeed, could the child come, in her extremity, but to me, the mother of her motherless youth?"
"Oh, madam, you fill my heart with joy and grat.i.tude! My wife under this roof?"
"Yes, monseigneur."
"And safe and well?"
"Safe and well."
"Thank Heaven! Can I see her at once? Does she know I am here? Does she know--"
"She knows everything, monseigneur, that you would have her know, although she has not heard the confession of John Scott, which has just been made to you. She knows everything by means of the agencies I set to work to investigate the truth. And she knows that you will forgive her, through the intuitions of her own spirit."
"When can I see her, madam? Oh, when?" exclaimed the young duke, rising impatiently.
"This moment, if you please. She is expecting you. Follow me, monseigneur," said the abbess, rising and leading the way through the broad hall that stretched between the wicket room and the lady-superior"s parlor.
When they reached the place, the abbess said:
"Enter, monseigneur. You will find the d.u.c.h.ess alone, within."
And she opened the door and admitted him, then closed it behind him, and paced slowly away from the spot.
As the duke advanced into the room, so silently that his footsteps were unheard, he saw his wife sitting within the recess of the solitary window. She wore a simple dress of black serge, with a white collar and white cuffs, such as she had worn ever since her entrance into the convent. Her head was turned toward the window and bowed upon her hand in an att.i.tude of meditation. She neither saw nor heard the soft approach of the duke. He stood gazing on her with infinite pity, for a moment, and then laying his hand gently on her shoulder, whispered:
"Salome!"
She started up with a wild cry of joy! She would have sank down at his feet, but he caught her to his bosom, held her there, stroking her hair, kissing her face, murmuring in her ear:
"Salome, Salome, my sweet wife, Salome! Oh, how thankful! Oh, how glad I am to meet you!"
She could not answer him. She could not speak. She was overwhelmed by his goodness. She could only burst into tears and weep like a storm upon his bosom.
He sat down on the sofa, and drew her to his side, keeping his arm around her and resting her head upon his bosom, while still he smoothed her hair with his hands, and kissed her from time to time, until she ceased to weep.
"I can never forgive myself," she murmured at length--"never forgive myself for the deep wrong I have done your n.o.ble nature; nor do I ask you to forgive me; because--because your every tone and look and gesture expresses the full forgiveness, you are too delicate and generous to speak!"
"No, sweet wife, do not ask me to forgive you; for you have done no willful wrong that needs forgiveness. And I have no forgiveness for you, sweet, but only love! infinite, eternal love! Our past is dead and buried. Let it be forgotten. You will leave this house with me this evening, love. And as soon as our duties will release us from this neighborhood we will return to England, where a host of friends will welcome us home. And here is something that will surprise and please you, love. Your flight is not known to the world. We are believed to be living in Italy together, where I have been traveling alone in secret search for you these many months. We shall return to society as from a lengthened wedding tour. Come, love, will you go away with me this very evening?"
"I will go anywhere, do anything you wish--for, under G.o.d, henceforth I have no will but yours, oh, my lord and love!" murmured the young wife, sweetly, and solemnly, as she turned her face to his, and he sealed her promise with an earnest kiss.
The same evening the Duke of Hereward took his recovered bride to the pretty, rustic inn at L"Ange, and installed her in a pleasant suite of apartments. They remained at L"Ange until after the funeral of poor John Scott, whose body was interred in the little cemetery by St. Marie L"Ange.
The young Duke of Hereward defrayed all the expenses of the burial, and settled upon the widow an income sufficient to enable her to live in comfort and respectability. With the full consent of the unloving mother, who was but too willing to be relieved of her inc.u.mbrance, the young d.u.c.h.ess of Hereward adopted little Marie Perdue; "perdue" no longer, but the cherished pet of a fond foster-mother.
Before leaving France, the Duke and d.u.c.h.ess of Hereward richly endowed the charities of the Convent of St. Rosalie, which had been so long the refuge of the lost bride. The d.u.c.h.ess took an affectionate leave of the gentle abbess and her simple nuns, who had for so many months been her only companions. She promised to make them an annual visit.
The young duke took his recovered bride over to England, then on to Scotland, and finally to their beautiful home, Lone Castle, where the young couple were received by their tenantry with great rejoicings.
THE END.