THE OLD LOVE.
The hour had now arrived at which our room looked really becoming. It
had been a particularly fine autumn; and I have mentioned the effect of
a warm sunset streaming through the deep windows upon the oak panelling.
This light had begun to fade, and its melancholy serenity had made us
silent. I had heard the sound of wheels near our door, but that was
nothing unusual, for carts often passed close by, carrying away the
rubbish that had accumulated in the old houses now taken down.
Annie Owen, our Malory maid, peeped in at the door--came in, looking
frightened and important, and closed it before she spoke. She was
turning something about in her fingers.
"What is it, Anne?" I asked.
"Please, miss, there's an old gentleman downstairs; and he wants to
know, ma'am," she continued, now addressing mamma, "whether you'll be
pleased to see him."
Mamma raised herself, and looked at the girl with anxious, startled
eyes.
"What is that you have got in your hand?" I asked.
"Oh! I beg your pardon, ma'am; he told me to give you this, please." And
she handed a card to mamma. She looked at it and grew very pale. She
stood up with a flurried air.
"Are you sure?" she said.
"Please, ma'am?" inquired the girl in perplexity.
"No matter. Ethel, dear, it is he. Yes, I'll see him," she said to the
girl, in an agitated way; "show him up. Ethel, it's Harry
Rokestone--don't go; he is so stern--I know how he'll speak to me--but I
ought not to refuse to see him."
I was angry at my mother's precipitation. If it had rested with me,
what an answer the savage old man should have had! I was silent. By this
time the girl was again at the hall-door. The first moment of
indignation over, I was thunderstruck. I could not believe that anything
so portentous was on the eve of happening.
The moments of suspense were not many. My eyes were fixed on the door as
if an executioner were about to enter by it. It opened, and I saw--need
I tell you?--the very same tall, handsome old man I had seen in the
chapel of Cardyllion Castle.
"Oh! Mabel," he said, and stopped. It was the most melancholy, broken
voice I had ever heard. "My darling!"
My mother stood with her hand stretched vaguely towards him, trembling.
"Oh! Mabel, it is you, and we've met at last!"
He took her hand in one of his, and laid the other suddenly across his
eyes and sobbed. There was silence for a good while, and then he spoke
again.
"My pretty Mabel! I lost ye; I tried to hate ye, Mabel; but all would
not do, for I love ye still. I was mad and broken-hearted--I tried to
hate ye, but I couldn't; I'd a' given my life for you all the time, and
you shall have Malory--it's your own--I've bought it--ye'll not be too
proud to take a gift from the old man, my only darling! The spring and
summer are over, it's winter now wi' the old fellow, and he'll soon lie
under the grass o' the kirk-garth, and what does it all matter then? And
you, bonny Mabel, there's wonderful little change wi' you!"
He was silent again, and tears coursed one another down his rugged
cheeks.
"I saw you sometimes a long way off, when you didn't think I was
looking, and the sight o' ye wrung my heart, that I didn't hold up my
head for a week after. A lonely man I've been for your sake, Mabel; and
down to Gouden Friars, and among the fells, and through the lonnins of
old Clusted Forest, and sailin' on the mere, where we two often were,
thinkin' I saw ye in the shaddas, and your voice in my ear as far away
as the call o' the wind--dreams, dreams--and now I've met ye."
He was holding mamma's hand in his, and she was crying bitterly.
"I knew nothing of all this till to-day--I got all Forrester's letters
together. I was on the Continent--and you've been complaining, Mabel;
but you're looking so young and bonny! It was care, care was the matter,
care and trouble; but that's all over, and you shall never know anxiety
more--you'll be well again--you shall live at Malory, if you like it, or
Gouden Friars--Mardykes is to let. I've a right to help you, Mabel, and
you have none to refuse my help, for I'm the only living kinsman you
have. I don't count that blackguard lord for anything. You shall never
know care again. For twenty years and more an angry man and dow I've
been, caring for no one, love or likin, when I had lost yours. But now
it is past and over, and the days are sped."
A few melancholy and broken words more, and he was gone, promising to
return next day at twelve, having seen Mr. Forrester in the meantime at
his house in Piccadilly, and had a talk with him.
He was gone. He had not spoken a word to me--had not even appeared
conscious that I was present. I daresay he was not. It was a little
mortifying. To me he appeared a mixture, such as I never saw before, of
brutality and tenderness. The scene had moved me.
Mamma was now talking excitedly. It had been an agitating meeting, and,
till he had disclosed his real feelings, full of uncertainty. To prevent
her from exerting herself too much, I took my turn in the conversation,
and, looking from the window, still in the direction in which his cab
had disappeared, I descanted with immense delight on the likelihood of
his forthwith arranging that Malory should become our residence.
As I spoke, I turned about to listen for the answer I expected from
mamma. I was shocked to see her look so very ill. I was by her side in a
moment. She said a few words scarcely audible, and ceased speaking
before she had ended her sentence. Her lips moved, and she made an eager
gesture with her hand; but her voice failed. She made an effort, I
thought, to rise, but her strength forsook her, and she fainted.