PAYMENT IN FULL
It had been one of those softly brilliant days in late October, which
sometimes come as if to haunt us with the ghost of the dead and gone
summer. The sun had set in a golden haze, and the amber reaches of the
upper sky were darkening slowly as the shades of advancing night crept
upward from the east, when Ethel and Everard met face to face in the
park.
Everard had collected his rents and seen to various other matters, and
on his way to the Chase had called at the bank and paid in his day’s
receipts. At the Chase he had seen neither Sir Gilbert nor John, but as
he had nothing special to see the Baronet about, he had contented
himself with leaving a note for him on the library table, having
reference to one or two matters in which his employer was specially
interested. He was ignorant of the return of Lady Pell and Ethel from
The Shrublands when he set off to walk across the park home.
Scarcely had Lady Pell had time to take off her bonnet and cloak on her
return, before she received a message to the effect that Sir Gilbert
would like to see her in the blue parlour at her earliest convenience,
and there she presently found both the Baronet and his son.
Then to her in turn was unfolded the extraordinary story which had been
told by John to his father the night before, followed by a request that
she would take upon herself the office of breaking the news to Ethel
before either her father or grandfather should see the girl, which her
ladyship willingly agreed to do.
Into the particulars either of that interview, or of the subsequent one
between the astounded girl and the two men we need not enter. They must
be left to the imagination of those readers who have followed our
narrative thus far.
On one point only is it needful to give the details of what passed. It
was after Lady Pell had broken her news and Ethel’s bewildered
faculties had recovered in part from the shock, that the latter said,
“You have told me nothing about my mother, Lady Pell. Is she living or
dead?”
So wholly unexpected was the question that for a few moments her
ladyship was thoroughly nonplussed. Yet the question Ethel had asked
was one natural to her sex and age. Whenever she had speculated about
her unknown parents, or had indulged in daydreams about them, her
silent cry had been, “Mother, where are you? Mother, I want you!” It
was not a father whom her heart had gone out in search of. So now, when
told that the father from whom she had been separated when an infant in
arms, had in some wonderful and as yet unexplained way found her again,
the question anent her mother sprang involuntarily to her lips.
“I have told you all that I was commissioned to tell you, my dear, and
beyond that my lips are sealed,” replied her ladyship with an amount of
hesitation quite unusual with her. “Of your mother I can tell you
nothing, and if you will take my advice, you will ask no question about
her of either your father or your grandfather. You may rely upon it
that you will be told all it is requisite for you to know, and beyond
that I feel sure that you will not seek to pry.”
It is almost needless to state that at the ensuing interview the name
of Giovanna Clare was not mentioned. Ethel was still left purposely in
the dark as regarded all those points of her history with which her
mother was concerned, for since John Clare could not have spoken of his
wife to their daughter except in terms of the severest censure, he
preferred not to speak of her at all. On one point, however, Ethel was
quite clear, for her father had given her distinctly to understand that
it was entirely due to Everard Lisle’s efforts that they two had been
brought together.
The moment the interview was over she had hurried to her room. Her eyes
were dim with tears, but they were tears of happiness. She wanted to be
alone—she wanted to sit quietly with shut eyes and try to realise the
change which had come over her life within the last two hours. So
strange and wonderful did it seem, that more than once she asked
herself, in all seriousness, whether it was true that she was really
awake and not the victim of some inexplicable hallucination.
As she stood before the window, she caught sight of Everard Lisle
crossing the park on his way to the Chase. He had left the dog-cart,
which had taken him on his rounds, at Elm Lodge, not knowing how long
he might be detained by Sir Gilbert.
Ethel’s heart seemed to stop beating for a couple of seconds and then
went on at express pace. She had not seen her lover for a whole week,
and now that they were both back at the Chase what less than a
fairy-tale was it that she had to pour into his ear? Hastily putting on
her outdoor things she left the house by a side door, and crossing the
park to a spot where five huge elms grew within touch of each other,
there waited. Close by ran the narrow footpath which led from the Chase
to a door in the boundary wall of the park of which Everard Lisle
possessed a key, and three minutes’ walk beyond which was Elm Lodge. It
was by this footpath that he went to and from the Chase, and so saved
himself a long detour by way of the main entrance to the park.
Not long had Ethel to wait. Presently she saw Everard in the distance,
pacing along with downcast mien and eyes which seemed to see nothing,
unless it were some inward pictures conjured up by his own fancy. As a
rule his bearing was so resolute and self-assured, he fronted the world
so confidently, that Ethel could not help being struck by the change.
Not till Everard was within a few yards of her did Ethel emerge from
the umbrage of the trees and go slowly to meet him. He gave a great
start the moment his eyes fell on her, and all his face lighted
suddenly up as she had foretold it would. Three or four quick strides
brought him to her side, and the same instant she was enfolded in his
arms and strained close to his heart. Gently disengaging herself she
said—
“Is this the way to treat an unprotected female? You ought really to
try to get the better of your primitive instincts. Marriage by capture
went out centuries ago. But, oh, Everard, I have so much to tell you!”
She took his arm and together they began to pace slowly to and fro in
the shadow of the great trees.
“Do you know, sir, in whose company you are?” she playfully went on
presently. “Do you know that she who is now speaking to you is Miss
Clare of Withington Chase?”
Everard stopped dead.
“Then what I thought must be true has come true!” he said; and on the
instant all the gladness died out of his face, and half his youth
seemed to go with it.
But Ethel was not looking at him just then and saw nothing of the
change.
“Yes,” she resumed, “henceforth my name will be Ethel Thursby Clare.
Only an hour ago I was told. I am no longer a waif, a nobody’s child.
The mystery of my birth is a mystery no longer. I have found a father,
a grandfather, a home—though, thanks to my dear aunts, I have never
known the want of the last—and I owe them all to you—to you—to you!” As
she spoke she faced him suddenly and gazed at him with deep love and
devotion in her eyes.
“But do you not see, cannot you comprehend,” cried Everard in deep
dejection, “how this change in your fortunes affects the whole position
of affairs as between you and me? When I sought and won from you a
promise to become my wife, I knew you only as Ethel Thursby, a
portionless girl no higher in the social scale than myself. To-day I
know you as the descendant of an old and honoured family, as the
granddaughter of a man both proud and rich, who will naturally be
justified in expecting that when Miss Clare marries it will be some
person very different from one of his own salaried dependents.”
“When you took me for your promised wife, you did so with your eyes
open, knowing me to be what I was—a nameless waif—and having no
certainty that one day it might not be shown that I was the offspring
of beggars, or worse. But did you allow that prospect to deter you in
the least? You know well and I know well that you did not; and if it
had been proved that I was the descendant of a family of thieves
instead of the Clares of Withington, I have such faith in your love for
me that I believe you would still have said: I care not whose child you
are; you are still my promised wife.”
“In believing so you do me no more than justice.”
“Then perhaps you will be good enough to explain why the fact that Sir
Gilbert Clare is my grandfather should modify or alter in any way the
conditions of our engagement.”
“We need scarcely trouble ourselves with the why or the wherefore while
the indubitable fact remains. The revelations of the last few hours
have served to fix a great gulf between you and me. There is no option
left me, none, but to release you from your promise, to give it back to
you unconditionally.”
“Oh, how bitterly proud you are!” cried Ethel, her eyes flashing. “But
supposing I refuse to be released, supposing I refuse to take back my
promise, as I most assuredly do—what then?”
“In that case I can but lay it at your feet. When a prisoner’s fetters
are knocked off he has no option in the matter; he is simply told that
he is free. There is one point which neither you nor I should allow
ourselves for one moment to forget. You can no longer claim to be your
own mistress. Your duty and obedience are due to others. Those others
will have views, wishes, prospects in connection with one so dear to
them which you cannot afford to disregard.”
Ethel shook her head. “Obedience sometimes degenerates into weakness,
and wrongs done either to oneself or others are none the less wrongs
even if dignified with the name of duty. But I will say no more now,
Everard. I see that it would be useless to argue with you. And I must
hurry back, for I have long outstayed my time. When we next meet it
will be my turn to triumph.” Her eyes laughed up at her lover as he
stooped and pressed his lips to hers. Then without pausing she flew
towards the house.
Merely taking off her hat and jacket, Ethel went direct to the library,
where she found both Sir Gilbert and her father, who had been on the
point of going to their rooms to dress for dinner. They both welcomed
her with a glad smile.
“I sent in search of you half-an-hour ago, but you were nowhere to be
found,” said the Baronet. “Where have you been hiding yourself? But
come up to the fire. I can tell the wind has got round to the east
again by the twinge in my left shoulder.”
Seating herself on a hassock near the fire, Ethel spread out her hands
between her face and the blaze. One of her father’s hands lingered for
a moment caressingly on her hair.
Although she did not in the least falter in her purpose, her heart was
beating much faster than was common, and there was an odd little quaver
in her voice when she spoke.
“I have been for a ramble in the park,” she said, “and there I met
Everard Lisle. Indeed, it was on purpose to meet him that I went, for
we had not seen each other since before he set out on that journey
which ended so unexpectedly at Liverpool.”
“Um—um,” murmured the Baronet.
“Then, of course, you had much to say to each other,” remarked John
Clare. “Doubtless Mr. Lisle was greatly surprised at what you had to
tell him.”
“I don’t think it came upon him altogether as a surprise. Although he
did not say so, I fancy he suspected the truth before.”
“I have never found Lisle deficient in perspicacity,” said Sir Gilbert
as if speaking to himself.
“I hope neither of you has forgotten that I am Everard Lisle’s promised
wife,” said Ethel with a little gasp, as her eyes glanced from one to
the other and then were again averted.
“That is a fact which neither your grandfather nor I would be at all
likely to forget,” replied John, gravely.
There was a pause. Presently John reached forward and again laid his
hand on her hair. “Darling, you have something more to tell us—I feel
sure of it,” he said very gently. “Speak. You have nothing to fear.”
“Yes, I have something more to tell you. Everard insisted on giving me
back my promise and that all should be at an end between us.”
The eyes of the two men met across the figure of the crouching girl.
“Doubtless he had some more or less valid reason to urge for insisting
that the engagement between you should be broken off.” It was her
father who spoke.
“Oh, he was quite explicit as to his reasons. I am no longer the
nameless, portionless girl to whom he engaged himself, but the
granddaughter of Sir Gilbert Clare of Withington Chase; whereas, he is
only Sir Gilbert Clare’s dependent.”
“I felt sure from the first that Lisle had all the instincts of a
gentleman,” interpolated the Baronet.
“Well, my dear, and what answer did you make this very self-willed
young man?” queried John.
“I refused to take back my promise, and told him that whatever might be
the alteration in my position and prospects I owed it wholly to him,
but that as between him and me nothing whatever was changed.”
“He had something to say to that, I have no doubt.”
“He persisted in saying that all was at an end between us, and bade me
remember that there were others whom I must now consider, and who have
a right to expect the duty and obedience which is their due.”
The Baronet nodded his head as one in thorough accord with the views
thus enunciated.
“Yes—and then?” said John.
“Then I left him and came direct to you”—with a gesture that included
both the men.
“You acted very rightly, my dear,” remarked her grandfather.
“Both my father and I are fully conscious of our indebtedness to Mr.
Lisle,” said John. “And you may take my word that neither of us is
disposed to undervalue it. But that is not the question before us just
now. The points we are anxious to be satisfied upon are, that your
happiness is really bound up with your engagement to Mr. Lisle; that
you feel inwardly assured not merely that you love him, but of the
depth and sincerity of his affection for you, and finally, whether
under all the circumstances of the case, it is not desirable that your
engagement should remain in abeyance, say for six months, or even for
three, with the view of proving at the end of that time whether you
really do care for each other as much as you believe you do now.”
“Dear father”—she spoke the words with a certain sweet shyness, which
thrilled him as with a sense of exquisite music—“put us to whatever
test may seem best to you. I have no fear for either Everard or myself.
We will submit ourselves to you in every way!
“Is that so?” said John with a smile and a lifting of his eyebrows.
“What, then, if I were to say, I will have no more of this engagement;
that it shall come to an end from this hour!”
“That is a question there is no need for me to answer, because I am
quite sure you will never say anything of the kind!”
Sir Gilbert chuckled.
“You are no match for the young monkey, that’s evident,” he remarked. A
second later he pulled the bell-rope that was within reach of his hand,
and to the servant who came in, he said: “Order dinner to be put back
half-an-hour, and then have word sent at once to Elm Lodge that I
expect Mr. Lisle to dine here this evening!”
As the man left the room, Sir Gilbert turned to Ethel.
“There shall be no more talk of broken engagements, nor of putting you
and your lover to the test. The debt which I and your father owe to
Everard Lisle can only be paid in full by giving him our greatest
treasure.”
Ethel stood up, surprise, doubt, joy, wonder were all expressed in the
look she bent on the old man.
“Oh, grandpapa, do you really mean it?” she gasped.
“Most really and truly I mean it!”
With a sudden impulse she seated herself on his knees and flung both
her arms round his neck.
“You have made me the happiest girl in England,” she murmured brokenly.