_CONFIDENCES._
WHILE these things were happening at The Firs, the wagonette was
swiftly taking the rest of the party back to Riverside.
When they got in, Dr. Arundel found there was a summons for him to go
to a sick man some two miles in another direction. But the messenger
had left word that any time that evening would do.
"They are very considerate," he remarked, as they gathered round the
supper-table. "But I am sorry to leave you both—"
"So am I," said Vincent, who had been reading a letter which he had
found on the mantelshelf, "for this is my last evening: Mr. Brown has
written to recall me. He does not explain, but says the urgency of it
justifies him in asking for my return; and that he will spare me again
in a week or so if I like."
"Oh, that is all right then!" exclaimed his sister. "We can look
forward to that! You must come back, Vincent. This has not been a
quarter long enough!"
"It is very kind of you to wish it—but I hardly think I can come again
so soon—" objected Vincent.
"Do," exclaimed Arthur, heartily. "Arrange to spend a week with us.
There is plenty to see, and to such a cyclist as you are, the Welsh
mountains are within reach!"
Vincent shook his head, but as if the prospect held out were very
tempting.
And then, when Arthur was gone and the twin brother and sister went
into the drawing-room, Vincent sat in the twilight very silent.
"You will come again soon, Vincent, will you not?" asked Mary, softly.
"I don't know, Pollie—"
"Why?"
"I do not suppose it would be of much use—"
"Coming to see me, do you mean?"
"You know I don't mean that, Pollie! But though I can't explain it, I
never saw anyone before that I cared about in the least. And now I do
care about—Ruth—and she—I do not suppose I could ever get her to care
for me."
"I do not see why not," said Mary, calmly. She knew Vincent well enough
to be sure that he would not be ready to have any sympathy or gladness
shewn him.
"Pollie," he went on slowly, in such a smothered tone that she could
hardly catch his words, "the moment I saw her, I felt my fate had come!"
"Your fate?"
"Well—whatever you like to call it! I wish it were not so, but—there it
is."
"Why do you wish it were not so?" she asked, surprise in her voice. It
was getting too dark to see each other's faces.
"Because, can't you see? She does not care for me, and just treats me
as your brother and nothing else—"
"But, Vincent, she cannot be supposed to guess at this—" exclaimed
Mary, earnestly.
He seemed to listen, and she went on.
"Is there any other difficulty in the way?"
"Yes—even if—even—should I be able to get her to think of it—I do not
see how she could leave her father? He is all alone, and my work lies
at Mr. Brown's, near home."
"I see that; is there anything else?"
"You agree with me that there is that insurmountable difficulty?" he
said, quickly.
"Not too fast! That would have to be considered. Is there anything
else?"
"She has been used to luxuries, and I could only give her a quiet
little home—though I would try to make her happy."
"That's nothing!" said Mary, promptly. "Any girl worth anything does
not mind beginning quietly. Anything else?"
"You've got a lot of questions ready, Pollie!" he exclaimed, laughing a
little nervously. "You are a regular inquisitor!"
"You know me of old," she said, "so I can't alter to please you now.
The fact is, Vincent, it is just this! Do you mean to try to smother
your feelings, or do you mean to try to win her?"
Vincent was silent for a long time, and Mary said not another word. She
was inexpressibly touched by his confidence, but how to tell him so she
did not know. His communication had come as an intense surprise.
At length, he stirred, and took hold of his sister's hand firmly.
"You are not sorry, Pollie!" he said, hesitating a little.
"Very, very glad, if it is for your happiness!"
"You like her—you would do all you could, wouldn't you, Pollie?"
"Why, Vincent, of course I should!"
"Yes, yes! And now I've to go away, Pollie. It seems so hard."
"I shall expect you back soon."
"I'm afraid there is everything against me."
"Do not be so faint-hearted, Vincent—I think there is everything in
your favour!"
"Then, besides all the rest, she is devoting herself to this little
cousin—"
"Oh, well, that is all as it should be. Why should she not? Perhaps he
will get better, Vincent; do not look at the obstacles, but think now
of the old days when things were too hard for us to manage, and try the
old remedy in this new difficulty. If God has this joy in store for you
by and bye, ask Him to make you ready for it when He sends it."
He turned towards her, and kissed her softly. "Dear old Pollie, there's
no one like you in all the world."
"All the world?" she said, archly.
"All the world," he reiterated; "all the world, at present."
So Mary knew what the answer was to one of her questions, though she
did not get it in so many words.
The moonlight was streaming in at the window, and flooding the room
with its tender light.
"Let us go out, Pollie, unless you are tired?"
"Oh, no. But I will just leave word where Arthur may find us."
So they went down to the river's edge, and sat there talking of
everything that concerned them, till after a long time all the church
clocks struck ten, and they heard Arthur's footsteps coming along the
gravel.
"I shall not bind you down not to tell him, Pollie," said Vincent, "but
if you don't mind, let it be when I am gone."