A fortunate chance revealed to Seth Dumbrick the knowledge of the Duchess's flight many hours before she intended him to become acquainted with it. Both he and Sally had observed a strange and unaccountable excitement in the Duchess's manner, and had spoken of it in confidence to each other. She had been absent twice during the day, and when on the second occasion she returned, her restlessness was so marked that it communicated itself to her friends. It was not without fear, nor without some sense of the ingratitude of the act, that the Duchess prepared secretly for flight, and more than once her courage almost failed her; but she fortified herself with the reflection that she could return at the last moment if she wished, and that she had time before her to retract.
She had no real love for Ned Chester. She liked him, and had been led away by his attentions and flatteries, by the handsome presents he had given her, and by the belief that he was rich and a gentleman. All the sentiment that the future contained for her was that she would be able to live like a lady. In all other respects the page was blank, and her history would be written from experiences to come.
Early in the afternoon there was a heavy fall of snow, which, from appearance, bid fair to continue through the night. In the midst of the storm, the Duchess stole away from Rosemary Lane.
Within half a mile from home she entered a cab, as she believed unobserved. But Sally, who was at that moment returning from the establishment which supplied her with needlework, saw the Duchess's face, as the cab drove swiftly off. The truth flashed upon her instantly; the Duchess had gone away from them for ever. Wringing her hands in despair, she ran after the cab, but it was soon out of sight, and seeing the hopelessness of pursuit she retraced her steps, and ran swiftly to Rosemary Lane to acquaint Seth Dumbrick with the circumstance.
Mention has frequently been made of Mrs. Preedy. To this woman the Duchess had entrusted a letter accompanied with a bribe, and the instruction that it was not to be delivered to Seth until the following morning. In the course of the few anxious minutes which Seth (after hearing what Sally had to tell him) devoted to the endeavour to discover a clue in Rosemary Lane, he came across Mrs. Preedy. It needed no great shrewdness on his part to suspect, from the woman's important manner, that she had something to impart, and with a small exercise of cunning he extracted the letter from her.
The mere receipt of it filled him with alarm. He hurried to his cellar, with Sally at his heels.
"I wouldn't open it before the neighbours," he said to Sally, "for the Duchess's sake. They're only too ready to talk, and take away a girl's character."
With this he opened the letter. The words were few:
"I have gone away, and perhaps shall never come back. I will try and pay you and Sally for all your kindness to me. Don't blame me; I cannot help what I am doing. When you see me again, I shall be a lady. Goodbye."
They looked at each other with white faces.
"It has come," said Seth, in a pathetic voice, "What we dreaded has come. Our child has deserted us. God send that she is not being deceived; but I fear--I fear!" He paced the cellar for some moments in anxious thought, and Sally, with all her soul in her eyes, followed his movements. Presently he straightened himself with the air of a man who has a serious task before him. "I am going straight to my duty," he said. "Kiss me, my dear. Whatever a man can do, I intend to do, without fear of consequences."
"Let me go with you, Daddy," implored Sally.
"Come along, then; it will be as well, perhaps."
No further words passed between them, and as quickly as it could be accomplished, the shutters were put up to Seth's stall, and he and Sally were riding to Mr. Temple's house. On his arrival there Seth demanded to see Mr. Temple.
The servant conveyed the message to Mr. Temple, coupling it with the information that the visitor was the person who had lately been turned from the house by Mr. Temple's orders. Mr. Temple ordered the servant again to expel him; but the man returned, saying that Seth Dumbrick declared he must have an interview, and promised that he would not detain Mr. Temple. The secret of this lay in the servant having been bribed by Seth.
"The person is not alone, sir," said the servant; "he has a woman with him."
"Let him come in," said Mr. Temple; "and you yourself will remain within call."
"Now," said Mr. Temple haughtily, the moment Seth and Sally entered, "without a word of preamble, the reason of this intrusion. You are, perhaps, aware that I could have you locked up for forcing your way into my house."
"In that case," said Seth firmly, "I should be compelled, in the magistrate's court to make certain matters public. The press is open to a man's wrongs."
"Clap-trap," exclaimed Mr. Temple. "Come at once to your business with me."
Seth handed to Mr. Temple the note left by the Duchess with Mrs. Preedy. Mr. Temple read it in silence, and returned it with the words,
"How does this affect me?"
"My child has fled," said Seth.
"How does that affect me?"
"Your son is with her."
"Twill satisfy you," said Mr. Temple, with a frown, "that you are labouring under a gross error." He touched the bell; the servant answered it. "Go to Mr. Arthur Temple, and tell him I desire to see him."
"He is not in the house, sir."
"Has he been long absent?"
"Not long, sir," replied the man who, through a fellow-servant, was enabled to give the information. "He left in great haste for the railway station to catch a train, I heard."
"For what place?"
"For Sevenoaks, sir."
Mr. Temple was aware that Seth's lynx eyes were upon him, and that it would give the common man an advantage if he exhibited surprise.
"Send Richards to me."
"Richards left the house with your son, sir."
Throughout his life Mr. Temple had proved himself equal to emergencies.
"You have nothing further to say to me, I presume," he said, addressing himself to Seth.
"Nothing that your own sense of honour and justice does not dictate," was the reply.
"It dictates nothing that you can have a claim to hear. There is the door."
Seth had his reasons now for not wishing to prolong the interview.
"I will not trouble you any longer, sir. I know what kind of justice I might expect from you in such a matter as this. From this moment it is for me to act, not to talk. I have but this to say before I leave. If my child comes to grief through your son--if he inflicts a wrong upon her--I will devote my life to exposing both him and you."
He quitted the room upon this, and, giving instructions to the cab-driver, bade Sally jump in.
"Where are you going now, Daddy?" asked Sally.
"To Sevenoaks. We may yet be in time."
The same train which conveyed him and Sally to Sevenoaks, conveyed Mr. Temple also. The men did not see each other. Mr. Temple rode first-class, Seth and Sally third.
The snowstorm showed no sign of abatement; steadily and heavily the white flakes fell.
The links which fate weaves around human lives were drawing closer and closer around the lives of the actors in this story; every yard that was traversed by the train, conveying Seth and Mr. Temple, strengthened the threads which for years had been so far distant from one another, that nothing but the strangest circumstance could have prevented them from eventually breaking. As Seth gazed from the window upon the falling snow, he prayed that he might be in time to save the child of his love, or to assure himself that she was on the right track. To Mr. Temple the heavy snowfall brought the memory of a night long buried in the past, when he had stood hidden near a quaint old church, while strangers' hands were saving from death the woman he had betrayed. And an uneasy feeling crept into his mind at the thought that the church was within a mile of the place towards which he was wending his way.