SIR HARRY WITHDRAWS.
Next morning, when the grey light came, I was neither glad nor sorry.
The shock of my yesterday's interview with the only man on earth I
loved, remained. It was a shock, I think, never to be quite recovered
from. I got up and dressed early. How ill and strange I looked out of
the glass in my own face!
I did not go down. I remained in my room, loitering over the hours that
were to pass before the arrival of Richard. I was haunted by his changed
face. I tried to fix in my recollection the earnest look of love on
which my eyes had opened from my swoon. But the other would take its
place and remain; and I could not get rid of the startled pain of my
heart. I was haunted now, as I had been ever since that scene had taken
place, with a vague misgiving of something dreadful going to happen.
I think it was between four and five in the evening that Rebecca Torkill
came in, looking pale and excited.
"Oh, Miss Ethel, dear, what do you think has happened?" she said,
lifting up both hands and eyes as soon as she was in at the door.
"Good Heaven, Rebecca!" I said, starting up; "is it anything bad?"
I was on the point of saying "anything about Mr. Marston?"
"Oh, miss! what do you think? Poor Sir Harry Rokestone is dead."
"Sir Harry dead!" I exclaimed.
"Dead, indeed, miss," said Rebecca. "Thomas Byres is just come up from
the vicar's, and he's had a letter from Mr. Blount this morning, and the
vicar's bin down at the church with Dick Mattox, the sexton, giving him
directions about the vault. Little thought I, when I saw him going
away--a fine man he was, six feet two, Adam Bell says, in his
boots--little thought I, when I saw him walk down the steps, so tall and
hearty, he'd be coming back so soon in his coffin, poor gentleman. But,
miss, they say dead folk's past feeling, and what does it all matter
now? One man's breath is another man's death. And so the world goes on,
and all forgot before long.
'To the grave with the dead,
And the quick to the bread.'
"A rough gentleman he was, but kind--the tenants will be all sorry.
They're all talking, the servants, downstairs. He was one that liked to
see his tenants and his poor comfortable."
All this and a great deal more Rebecca discoursed. I could hardly
believe her news. A letter, I thought, would have been sure to reach
Dorracleugh, as soon as the vicar's house, at least.
Possibly this dismaying news would turn out to be mere rumour, I
thought, and end in nothing worse than a sharp attack of gout in London.
Surely we should have heard of his illness before it came to this
catastrophe. Nevertheless I had to tear up my first note to the vicar--I
was so flurried, and it was full of blunders--and I was obliged to write
another. It was simply to entreat information in this horrible
uncertainty, which had for the time superseded all my other troubles.
A mounted messenger was despatched forthwith to the vicar's house. But
we soon found that the rumour was everywhere, for people were arriving
from all quarters to inquire at the house. It was, it is true, so far as
we could learn, mere report; but its being in so many places was worse
than ominous.
The messenger had not been gone ten minutes, when Richard Marston
arrived. From my room I saw the chaise come to the hall-door, and I ran
down at once to the drawing-room. Richard had arrived half an hour
before his time. He entered the room from the other door as I came in,
and met me eagerly, looking tired and anxious, but very loving. Not a
trace of the Richard whose smile had horrified me the day before.
Almost my first question to him was whether he had heard any such
rumour. He was holding my hand in his as I asked the question--he laid
his other on it, and looked sadly in my eyes as he answered, "It is only
too true. I have lost the best friend that man ever had."
I was too much startled to speak for some seconds, then I burst into
tears.
"No, no," he said, in answer to something I had said. "It is only too
certain--there can be no doubt; look at this."
He took a telegraph paper from his pocket and showed it to me. It was
from "Lemuel Blount, London." It announced the news in the usual
shocking laconic manner, and said, "I write to you to Dykham."
"I shall get the letter this evening when I reach Dykham, and I'll tell
you all that is in it to-morrow. The telegraph message had reached me
yesterday, when I saw you, but I could not bear to tell you the dreadful
news until I had confirmation, and that has come. The vicar has had a
message, about which there can be no mistake. And now, darling, put on
your things, and come out for a little walk--I have ever so many things
to talk to you about."
Here was a new revolution in my troubled history. More or less of the
horror of uncertainty again encompassed my future years. But grief,
quite unselfish, predominated in my agitation. I had lost a benefactor.
His kind face was before me, and the voice, always subdued to tenderness
when he spoke to me, was in my ear. I was grieved to the heart.
I got on my hat and jacket, and with a heavy heart went out with
Richard.
For many reasons the most secluded path was that best suited for our
walk. Richard Marston had just told the servants the substance of the
message he had received that morning from Mr. Blount, so that that they
could have no difficulty about answering inquiries at the hall-door.
We soon found ourselves in the path that had witnessed so many of our
meetings. I wondered what Richard intended talking about. He had been
silent and thoughtful. He hardly uttered a word during our walk, until
we had reached what I may call our trysting-tree, the grand old
beech-tree, under which a huge log of timber, roughly squared, formed a
seat.
Though little disposed myself to speak, his silence alarmed me.
"Ethel, darling," he said, suddenly, "have you formed any plans for the
future?"
"Plans!" I echoed. "I don't know--what do you mean, Richard?"
"I mean," he continued, sadly, "have you considered how this misfortune
may affect us? Did Sir Harry ever tell you anything about his
intentions--I mean what he thought of doing by his will? Don't look so
scared, darling," he added, with a melancholy smile; "you will see just
now what my reasons are. You can't suppose that a sordid thought ever
entered my mind."
I was relieved.
"No; he never said a word to me about his will, except what I told you,"
I answered.
"Because the people who knew him at Wrexham are talking. Suppose he has
cut me off and provided for you, could I any longer in honour hold you
to an engagement, to fulfil which I could contribute nothing?"
"Oh, Richard, darling, how can you talk so? Don't you know, whatever I
possess on earth is yours."
"Then my little woman refuses to give me up, even if there were
difficulties?" he said, pressing my hands, and smiling down upon my face
in a kind rapture.
"I could not give you up, Richard--you know I couldn't," I answered.
"My darling!" he exclaimed, softly, looking down upon me still with the
same smile.
"Richard, how could you ever have dreamed such a thing? You don't know
how you wound me."
"I never thought it, I never believed it, darling. I knew it was
impossible; whatever difficulties might come between us, I knew that I
could not live without you; and I thought you loved me as well. Nothing
then shall part us--nothing. Don't you say so? Say it, Ethel. I swear
it, nothing."
I gave him the promise; it was but repeating what I had often said
before. Never was vow uttered from a more willing heart. Even now I am
sure he reminded me, and, after his manner, loved me with a vehement
passion.
"But there are other people, Ethel," he resumed, "who think that I shall
be very well off, who think that I shall inherit all my uncle's great
fortune. But all may not go smoothly, you see; there may be great
difficulties. Promise me, swear it once more, that you will suffer no
obstacles to separate us; that we shall be united, be they what they
may; that you will never, so help you Heaven, forsake me or marry
another."
I did repeat the promise. We walked towards home; I wondering what
special difficulty he could be thinking of now; but, restrained by a
kind of fear, I did not ask him.
"I'm obliged to go away again, immediately," said he, after another
short silence; "but my business will be over to-night, and I shall be
here again in the morning, and then I shall be my own master for a time,
and have a quiet day or two, and be able to open my heart to you,
Ethel."
We walked on again in silence. Suddenly he stopped, laying his hand on
my shoulder, and looking sharply into my face, said:
"I'll leave you here--it is time, Ethel, that I should be off." He held
my hand in his, and his eyes were fixed steadily upon mine. "Look here,"
he said, after another pause, "I must make a bitter confession, Ethel;
you know me with all my faults--I have no principle of calculation in
me--equity and all that sort of thing, would stand a poor chance with me
against passion--I am all passion; it has been my undoing, and will yet
I hope," and he looked on me with a wild glow in his dark eyes, "be the
making of me, Ethel. No obstacle shall separate us, you have sworn; and
mind, Ethel, I am a fellow that never forgives, and as Heaven is my
judge, if you give me up, I'll not forgive you. But that will never be.
God bless you, darling--you shall see me early to-morrow. Go you in that
direction--let us keep our secret a day or two longer. You look as if
you thought me mad--I'm not that--though I sometimes half think so
myself. There has been enough in my life to make a steadier brain than
mine crazy. Good-bye, Ethel, darling, till to-morrow. God bless you!"
With these words he left me. His reckless language had plainly a meaning
in it. My heart sank as I thought on the misfortune that had reduced me
again to uncertainty, and perhaps to a miserable dependence. It was by
no means impossible that nothing had been provided for either him or me
by Sir Harry Rokestone. Men, prompt and accurate in everything else, so
often go on postponing a will until "the door is shut to," and the hour
passed for ever. It was horrible allowing such thoughts to intrude; but
Richard's conversation was so full of the subject, and my position was
so critical and dependent, that it did recur, not with sordid hopes, but
in the form of a great and reasonable fear.
When Richard was out of sight, as he quickly was among the trees, I
turned back, and sitting down again on the rude bench under our own
beech-tree, I had a long and bitter cry, all to myself.