SIR HARRY'S KEY.
Up to his room he went; his things were all there--he wished to get rid
of the dust and smuts of his railway journey.
He made his toilet rapidly; and just as he was about to open his door, a
knock came to it.
"What is it?" he asked.
"The vicar has called, sir, and wants to know if you can see him."
"Certainly. Tell him I'll be down in a moment."
Mr. Marston had foreseen this pursuit with a prescience of which he was
proud. He went downstairs, and found the white-haired vicar alone in the
drawing-room.
"I am so delighted you have come," said Richard Marston, advancing
quickly, with an outstretched hand, from the door, without giving him a
moment to begin. "I have only had time to dress since I arrived, and I
have made up my mind that it is better to replace this key in your hand,
without using it--and, in the meantime, it is better in your keeping
than in mine. Don't you think so?"
"Well, sir," said the good vicar, "I do. It is odd, but the very same
train of thought passed through my mind, and, in fact, induced me to pay
you this visit. You see it was placed in my charge, and I think, until
it is formally required of me, I should not part with it."
"Just so," acquiesced the young man.
"We both acted, perhaps, a little too precipitately."
"So we did, sir," said Richard Marston, "but I take the entire blame on
myself. I'm too apt to be impulsive and foolish. I generally think too
late; happily this time, however, I did reflect, and with your
concurrence, I am now sure I was right."
The young man paused and thought, with his hand on the vicar's arm.
"One thing," he said, "I would stipulate, however; as we are a good deal
in the dark, my reason for declining to take charge of the key would be
but half answered, as I must be a great deal in this house, and there
may be other keys that open it, and I can't possibly answer for
servants, and other people who will be coming and going, unless you will
kindly come into the next room with me for a moment."
The vicar consented; and Mr. Marston was eloquent. Mrs. Shackelton was
sent for, and with less reluctance opened the door for the vicar, whom
she loved. She did not leave it, however--they did not stay long. In a
few minutes the party withdrew.
"Won't you have some luncheon?" asked Richard, in the hall.
"No, thank you," said the vicar, "I am very much hurried. I am going to
see that poor boy to whom Mr. Blount has been so kind, and who is, I
fear, dying."
And with a few words more, and the key again in his keeping, he took his
leave.
I was all this time in my favourite haunt, alone, little thinking that
the hero of my dreams was near, when suddenly I saw him walking rapidly
up the path. With a cry, I ran to meet him. He seemed delighted and
radiant with love as he drew me to him, folded me for a moment in his
arms, and kissed me passionately. He had ever so much to say; and yet,
when I thought it over, there was nothing in it but one delightful
promise; and that was that henceforward, he expected to see a great deal
more of me than he had hitherto done.
There was a change in his manner, I thought--he spoke with something of
the confidence and decision of a lover who had a right to command. He
was not more earnest, but more demonstrative. I might have resented his
passionate greeting, if I had been myself less surprised and happy at
his sudden appearance. He was obliged to go down to the village, but
would be back again, he said, very soon. It would not do to make people
talk, which they would be sure to do, if he and I were not very
cautious.
Therefore I let him go, without entreaty or remonstrance, although it
cost me an indescribable pang to lose him, even for an hour, so soon
after our long separation. He promised to be back in an hour, and
although that was nearly impracticable, I believed him. "Lovers trample
upon impossibilities."
By a different route I came home. He had said:
"When I return, I shall come straight to the drawing-room--will you be
there?"
So to the drawing-room I went. I was afraid to leave it even for a
moment, lest some accident should make him turn back, and he should find
the room empty. There was to me a pleasure in obeying him, and I liked
him to see it. How I longed for his return! How restless I was! How
often I played his favourite airs on the piano; how often I sat at the
window, looking down at the trees and the mere, in the direction from
which I had so often seen his boat coming, you will easily guess.
All this time I had a secret misgiving. There was a change in Richard's
manner, as I have said; there was confidence, security, carelessness--a
kind of carelessness--not that he seemed to admire me less--but it was a
change. There seemed something ominous about it.
As time wore on I became so restless that I could hardly remain quiet
for a minute in any one place. I was perpetually holding the door open,
and listening for the sound of horses' hoofs, or wheels, or footsteps.
In vain.
An hour beyond the appointed time had passed; two hours. I was beginning
to fancy all sorts of horrors. Was he drowned in the mere? Had his horse
fallen and killed him? There was no catastrophe too improbable to be
canvassed among the wild conjectures of my terror.
The sun was low, and I almost despairing, when the door opened, and
Richard came in. I had heard no sound at the door, no step approaching,
only he was there.