‘Your heart is never away,
But ever with mine, for ever,
For ever, without endeavour,
To-morrow, love, as to-day;
Two blent hearts never astray,
Two souls no power may sever,
Together, O my love, for ever!’
There was a deal of trouble over it for a while, but when that faded
photograph and the certificate and the diary were brought into a larger
light things smoothed down. Shangarry saw at once how it must end, and
accepted the situation gracefully; but Mrs. Prior was a little hard to
manage until Ella (who refused point-blank to meet her) declared her
determination not to take more than half the money that had been left to
her by Sir John Burke, her grandfather. It was quite astonishing how
Mrs. Prior softened towards her after that. But Ella stood firm and
would not see her.
Later on she might consent to meet—at Lord Shangarry’s, perhaps (he had
fallen in love with the pretty, gentle girl who had endured so much), or
at Lady Forster’s house this season—Lady Forster had written a very
charming note—but not just now. Gentle as Ella was, she could not
forgive too readily. Yes, Lady Forster’s would be the best place. They
would be in town after their honeymoon, and there they could see Mrs.
Prior and break the ice, as it were.
But to-day no ice has to be broken. Ella, who has arranged with Wyndham
to meet him in the old Rectory garden, has gone over quite early to be
petted and made much of by all there—Carew excepted. That unhappy youth,
his first grand passion having been ruthlessly laid in the dust, and
with yet another new trouble that had arrived by the post some days ago
upon his shoulders, has carried himself and his injured affections far,
far away, to a distant trout stream.
Wyndham is staying with Crosby, who is most honestly glad of his
friend’s successful exit from a difficult situation. He has, indeed,
been highly sympathetic all through, astonishingly so for so determined
a bachelor, as he seems to Wyndham, who six months ago had seemed quite
as determined a bachelor to Crosby. Only to-day, at luncheon, he had
told Wyndham not to mind about leaving him when the ‘Rectory’ called. He
(Crosby) might walk down there later on. But he advised Wyndham to hurry
up, to start as early as he liked, not to wait for him, and so forth.
Wyndham took him at his word, decided not to wait, and was therefore
naturally a little surprised to find Crosby on the door-steps, not only
ready to go with him, but distinctly impatient. This seemed such
devotion to the cause, such honest friendliness towards him and Ella,
that Wyndham felt quite grateful to him.
* * * * *
‘How happy they look!’ says Miss Barry to Susan, finding herself alone
with her niece for a moment. She is looking at Wyndham and Ella, who
indeed seem to have reached their pinnacle of bliss. ‘And no wonder,’
with a sigh. ‘He is a most excellent match. Not only money, but a
title—in the distance. I can’t help wishing, Susan,’ sighing again, and
more heavily this time, ‘that it had been you.’
‘Me! I wouldn’t marry him for anything,’ says Susan indignantly.
‘That’s what girls always say,’ says Miss Barry mournfully, ‘until they
are asked.’ Perhaps she herself had said it many times. ‘But I assure
you, Susan, money is a good thing—and your poor father just now, with
the loss of this four hundred pounds that he had laid aside for Carew——’
‘Oh, I know!’ says Susan miserably. ‘It is dreadful. Poor, poor
father—and poor Carew, too! I suppose he can’t go in for his exam now?’
‘No, I’m afraid not, unless some miraculous thing should occur.
Susan!’—Miss Barry looks wistfully at her niece—‘James, now, he will be
well off—and he could help us. If you could——’
‘Could what?’ Susan’s eyes are almost menacing.
‘Think of him—in that way. He is well off, my dear, and——’
‘I shall not marry James,’ says Susan distinctly. ‘I wonder how you
could suggest it to me.’
‘Certainly he is very ugly,’ says Miss Barry, who has grown, poor soul,
very meek of late; the smashing of the bank that had held the four
hundred pounds, the savings of years, that the Rector had laid by with
the hope of putting his eldest boy into the army, has lowered her
spirit. Poverty seems to pursue them. And the sight of the Rector,
crushed and more gaunt than usual, has gone to her old heart. If only
Susan—any of them—could be provided for. How happy that girl Ella is!
how rich the man is who has chosen her! and yet is she to be so much as
compared with Susan? Miss Barry’s soul swells within her at the
injustice of it all.
If only Susan could be induced to think of James McIlveagh. But no,
Susan is not like that. She looks up suddenly, and there before her eyes
are James and Susan strolling leisurely, in quite a loverlike way,
towards the little shrubbery. Can the girl have taken her hint to heart?
A glow of hope radiates her mind for a moment. But then come other
thoughts, and fear, and trouble, and a keen, strange disappointment.
No, no! Susan—Susan to be worldly! Her pretty girl! God grant she has
not been the means of driving her to belie her better—her own—self.
Good gracious! If Susan comes back and tells her she has engaged herself
to James because of her father’s trouble—because of Carew’s trouble—what
shall she do? Miss Barry, who is hardly equal to emergencies so great as
this, looks with a certain wildness round her. Who can help her? That
foolish girl must be sent for; brought back from that shrubbery where
Miss Barry, in her panic, feels now assured James is once again, for the
hundredth time, proposing to her, and being (no doubt to his everlasting
astonishment) accepted. The last words can’t have been said as yet:
there may still be time to drag Susan out of the fire.
Wyndham and Ella and Miss Manning are coming towards her. Ella is going
home; it is nearly seven o’clock, and Wyndham will have barely time to
see her to the Cottage and catch his train to Dublin. Miss Barry bids
him a rather hurried good-bye, and then looks round for Betty. Betty is
always useful—when she can be found! But unfortunately Betty and Dom
have gone off to eat green gooseberries in the vegetable garden, a
fearsome occupation, of which they are both disgracefully fond, and that
seems to affect their stomachs in no wise. Betty, therefore, is not to
be had, but Miss Barry’s troubled eye wandering round sees Crosby, who
is sitting with Bonnie on his knee, and with courage born of desperation
she beckons him to come to her.
‘Mr. Crosby, I want Betty. Where is she?’
‘I think she went into the garden a moment ago with Dom.’
‘Do you mind—would you be so good as to tell her I want her, and at
once?’
‘Certainly,’ says Crosby, laughing; ‘though she and Dom, or both, bring
down all the anathemas in the world on my head.’
He starts on his quest, a little glad, indeed, to get away from the
others. Early in the afternoon he had had a little tiff with Susan—just
a small thing, a mere breeze, and certainly of his own creating. He had
said something about James—why the deuce can’t he leave James alone? But
it seems he can’t of late; and Susan had been a little, just a
little—what was it?—offended? Well, put out in some way, at all events.
Perhaps after all she does care for James. Like to like, you know—and
youth to youth; and there can be but a year or two between him and
Susan.
At this moment there is a quick movement of the branches on his left;
someone is pushing the laurel bushes aside with an angry, impatient
touch, and now——
Susan has stepped into view; a new Susan—angry, pale, hurried. Her soft
eyes are dark and frowning, but as she sees Crosby they lighten again,
and grow suddenly thick with tears. Then, as though in him lie comfort
and protection, she runs to him, holding out her hands.
He catches them, and saying nothing, draws her down the bank and into a
little leafy recess that leads to a small wood beyond. The touch of her
hand is good to him. She has forgiven, then, that late little conflict.
She can be angry with James, too, it seems. Confound that fool! What has
he been saying to her?
‘Well?’ says he.