"GOOD-BYE."
"I see," he said, dropping her hands and turning away with a heavy sigh.
"I was too late."
"Don't misunderstand me," said Elizabeth, with an effort. "I shall be
very happy. I owe a debt to my uncle and my cousins which scarcely
anything can repay."
"Give them anything but yourself" he said, gravely. "It is not right--I
do not speak for myself now, but for you--it is not right to marry a man
whom you do not love."
"But I did not say that I do not love him," she cried, trying to shield
herself behind this barrier of silence. "I said only that you had no
right to ask the question."
Brian looked at her and paused.
"You are wrong," he said at last, but so gently that she could not take
offence. "Surely one who cares for you as I do may know whether or not
you love the man that you are going to marry. It is no unreasonable
question, I think, Elizabeth. And if you do not love him, then again I
say that you are wrong and that it is not like your brave and honest
self to be silent."
"I cannot help it," she said, faintly. "I must keep my word."
"You are the best judge of that," he answered. But there was a little
coldness in his tone.
"Yes, I am the best judge," she went on more firmly. "I have promised;
and I will not break the promise that I have made. I told you before how
much I consider that I owe to them. Now that I have the chance of doing
a thing that will benefit, not only Percival, but all of them--from a
worldly point of view, I mean--I cannot bear to think of drawing back
from what I said I would do."
"How will it benefit them?"
"In a very small way, no doubt," she said, looking aside, so that she
might not see the mute protest of his face; "because worldly prosperity
is a small thing after all; but if you had seen, as I have, what it was
to my uncle to live in a poverty-stricken, sordid way, hampered with
duns and debts, and Percival harassing himself with vain endeavours to
set things straight, and the children feeling the sting of poverty more
and more as they grew older--and then to know that one has the power in
one's hands of remedying everything, without giving pain or hurting any
one's pride, or----"
"I am sorry," said Brian, as she hesitated for a word. "But I do not
understand."
"Why not!"
"How can you set things straight? And how is it that things want setting
straight? Mr. Heron is--surely--a rich man."
She laughed; even in the midst of her agitation, she laughed a soft,
pleasant, little laugh.
"Oh, I forgot," she said, suddenly. "You do not know. I found out on the
day you came that you did not know."
"Did not know--what?"
She raised her eyes to his face, and spoke with gravity, but great
sweetness.
"Nobody meant to deceive you," she said; "in fact, I scarcely know how
it is that you have not learnt the truth--partly; I suppose, because in
Italy I begged them not to tell anybody the true state of the case; but,
really, my uncle is not rich at all. He is a poor man. And Percival is
poor, too--very poor," she added, with a lingering sigh over the last
two words.
"Poor! But--how could a poor man travel in Italy, and rent the Villa
Venturi, say nothing of Strathleckie?"
"He did not rent it. They were my guests."
"Your guests? And what are they now, then?"
"My guests still."
Brian rose to his feet.
"Then you are a rich woman?"
"Yes."
"It is you, perhaps, who have paid me for teaching these boys?"
"There is no disgrace in being paid for work that is worth doing and
that is done well," said Elizabeth, flashing an indignant look at him.
He bowed his head to the rebuke.
"You are right, Miss Murray. But you will, I hope, do me the justice to
see that I was perfectly ignorant of the state of affairs; that I was
blind--foolishly blind----"
"Not foolishly. You could not help it."
"I might have seen. I might have known. I took you for----" And there
Brian stopped, actually colouring at the thought of his mistake.
"For the poor relation; the penniless cousin. But it was most natural
that you should, and two years ago it would have been perfectly true. I
have not been a rich woman for very many months, and I do not love my
riches very much."
"If I had known," began Brian; and then he burst out with a sudden
change of tone. "Give them your riches, since they value them and you do
not, and give yourself to me, Elizabeth. Surely your debt to them would
then be paid."
"What! by recompensing kindness with treachery?" she said, glancing at
him mournfully. "No, that plan would not answer. The money is a small
part of what I owe them. But I do sometimes wish that it had gone to
anybody but me; especially when I remember the sad circumstances under
which it became mine. When I think of poor Mrs. Luttrell of Netherglen,
I have never felt as if it were right to spend her sons' inheritance in
what gave pleasure to myself alone."
"Mrs. Luttrell of ---- But what have you to do with her?" said Brian,
with a sudden fixity of feature and harshness of voice that alarmed
Elizabeth. "Mrs. Luttrell of Netherglen! Good Heaven! It is not
you--you--who inherited that property? The Luttrell-Murrays----"
"I am the only Luttrell-Murray living," said Elizabeth.
He stared at her dumbly, as if he could not believe his ears.
"And you have the Luttrell estate?" he said at last.
"I have."
"I am glad of it," he answered; and then he put his hand over his eyes
for a second or two, as if to shut out the light of day. "Yes, I am very
glad."
"What do you mean, Mr. Stretton?" said Elizabeth, who was watching him
intently. "Do you know anything of my family? Do you know anything of
the Luttrells?"
"I have met some of them," he answered, slowly. His face was paler than
usual, and his eyes, after one hasty glance at her, fell to the ground.
"It was a long time ago. I do not know them now."
"You said you had been here before. You----"
"Miss Murray, don't question me as to how I knew them. You cannot guess
what a painful subject it is to me. I would rather not discuss it."
"But, Mr. Stretton----"
"Let me tell you something else," he said, hastily, as if anxious to
change the subject. "Let me ask you--as you are the arbitress of my
destiny, my employer, I may call you--when you will let me go. Could the
boys do without me at once, do you think? You would soon find another
tutor."
"Mr. Stretton! Why should you go? Do you mean to leave us?" exclaimed
Elizabeth. "Oh, surely it is not necessary to do that!"
"Do you think it would be so easy for me, then, to take money from your
hands after what has passed between us?"
"Money is a small thing," said she.
"Money! yes; but there are other things in the world beside money. And
it is better that I should go away from you now. It is not for my peace
to see you every day, and know that you are to marry Percival Heron.
Cannot you guess what pain it is to me?"
"But the children: you have no love for them, then. I thought that you
did love our little Jack--and they are so fond of you."
"Don't try to keep me," he said, hoarsely. "It is hard enough to say
good-bye without having to refuse you anything. The one thing now for
which I could almost thank God is that you never loved me, Elizabeth."
She shivered, and drew a long, sobbing breath. Her face looked pale and
cold: her voice did not sound like itself as she murmured--
"Why?"
"Because--no, I can't tell you why. Think for yourself of a reason. It
is not that I love you less; and yet--yet--not for the world would I
marry you now that I know what I know."
"You would not marry me because I am rich: that is it, is it not?" she
asked him. "I knew that some men were proud; but I did not think that
you would be so proud."
"What does it signify? There is no chance of your marrying me; you are
going to marry another man--whom you do not love; we may scarcely ever
see each other again after to-day. It is better so."
"If I were free," she said, slowly, "and if--if--I loved you, you would
be doing wrong to leave me because--only because--I was a little richer
than you. I do not think that that is your only motive. It is since you
heard that I was one of the Luttrell-Murrays that you have spoken in
this way."
"What if it were? The fact remains," he said, gloomily. "You do not care
for me; and I--I would give my very soul for you, Elizabeth. I had
better go. Think of me kindly when I am away--that is all. I see Miss
Heron and the boys on the brow of the hill signalling to us. Will you
excuse me if I say good-bye to you now, and walk back towards
Strathleckie?"
"Must it be now?" she said, scarcely knowing what the words implied. She
turned her face towards him with a look that he never forgot--a look of
inexpressible regret, of yearning sweetness, of something only too like
the love that he thought he had failed to win. It caused him to turn
back and to lean over her with a half-whispered question--
"Would it have been possible, Elizabeth, if we had met earlier, do you
think that you ever could have loved me?"
"Do you think you ought to ask me?"
"Ah, give me one word of comfort before I go. Remember that I go for
ever. It will do no one any harm. Could you have loved me, Elizabeth?"
"I think I could," she murmured in so low a tone that he could hardly
hear the words. He seized her hands and pressed them closely in his own;
he could do no more, for the Herons were very near. "Good-bye, my love,
my own darling!" were the last words she heard. They rang in her ears as
if they had been as loud as a trumpet-call; she could hardly believe
that they had not re-echoed far and wide across the moor. She felt giddy
and sick. The last sight of his face was lost in a strange, momentary
darkness. When she saw clearly again he was walking away from her with
long, hasty strides, and her cousins were close at hand. She watched him
eagerly, but he did not turn round. She knew instinctively that he had
resolved that she should never see his face again.
"What is the matter, Betty?" cried one of the children. "You look so
white! And where is Mr. Stretton going? Mr. Stretton! Wait for us!"
"Don't call Mr. Stretton," said Elizabeth, collecting her forces, and
speaking as nearly as possible in her ordinary tone. "He wants to get
back to Strathleckie as quickly as possible. I am rather tired and am
resting."
"You are not usually tired with so short a walk," said Kitty, glancing
sharply at her cousin's pallid cheeks. "Are you not well?"
"Yes, I am quite well," Elizabeth answered. "But I am very, very tired."
And then she rose and made her way back to the loch-side, where Mr. and
Mrs. Heron were still reposing. But her steps lagged, and her face did
not recover its usual colour as she went home, for, as she had said, she
was tired--strangely and unnaturally tired--and it was with a feeling of
relief that she locked herself into her own room at Strathleckie, and
gave way to the gathering tears which she had hitherto striven to
restrain. She would willingly have stayed away from the dinner-table,
but she was afraid of exciting remark. Her pale face and heavy eyelids
excited remark as much as her absence would have done; but she did not
think of that. Mr. Stretton, who usually dined with them, sent an excuse
to Mrs. Heron. He had a headache, and preferred to remain in his own
room.
"It must have been the sun," said Mrs. Heron. "Elizabeth has a headache,
too. Have you a headache, Kitty?"
"Not at all, thank you," said Kitty.
There was something peculiar in her tone, thought Elizabeth. Or was it
only that her conscience was guilty, and that she was becoming apt to
suspect hidden meanings in words and tones that used to be harmless and
innocent enough? The idea was a degrading one to her mind. She hated the
notion of having anything to conceal--anything, at least, beyond what
was lawful and right. Her inheritance, her engagement to Percival, had
been to some extent kept secret; but not, as she now said passionately
to herself, not because she was ashamed of them. Now, indeed, she was
ashamed of her secret, and there was nothing on earth from which she
shrank so much as the thought of its being discovered.
She went to bed early, but she could not sleep. The words that Brian had
said to her, the answers that she had made to him, were rehearsed one
after the other, turned over in her mind, commented on, and repeated
again and again all through the night. She hardly knew the meaning of
her own excitement of feeling, nor of the intense desire that possessed
her to see him again and listen once more to his voice. She only knew
that her brain was in a turmoil and that her heart seemed to be on fire.
Sleep! She could not think of sleep. His face was before her, his voice
was sounding in her ears, until the cock crew and the morning sunlight
flooded all the room. And then for a little while, indeed, she slept,
and dreamt of him.
She awoke late and unrefreshed. She dressed leisurely, wondering
somewhat at the vehemence of last night's emotion, but not mistress
enough of herself to understand its danger. In that last moment of her
interview with Brian she had given way far more than he knew. If he had
understood and taken advantage of that moment of weakness, she would not
have been able to refuse him anything. At a word she would have given up
all for him--friends, home, riches, even her promise to Percival--and
gone forth into the world with the man she loved, happier in her poverty
than she had ever been in wealth. "Ask me no more, for at a touch I
yield," was the silent cry of her inmost soul. But Brian had not
understood. He did not dream that with Elizabeth, as with most women,
the very weakest time is that which immediately follows the moment of
greatest apparent strength. She had refused to listen to him at all--and
after that refusal she was not strong, but weak in heart and will as a
wearied child.
Realising this, Elizabeth felt a sensation of relief and safety. She had
escaped a great gulf--and yet--and yet--she had not reached that point
of reasonableness and moderation at which she could be exactly glad that
she had escaped.
She made her way downstairs, and reached the dining-room to find that
everyone but herself had breakfasted and gone out. She was too feverish
to do more than swallow a cup of coffee and a little toast, and she had
scarcely concluded her scanty meal before Mr. Heron entered the room
with a disconcerted expression upon his face.
"Do you know the reason of this freak of Stretton's, Elizabeth?" he
asked almost immediately.
"What do you mean, Uncle Alfred?"
"I mean--has he taken a dislike to Strathleckie, or has anybody offended
him? I can't understand it. Just when we were settling down so nicely,
and found him such an excellent tutor for the boys! To run away after
this fashion! It is too bad!"
"Does Mr. Stretton think of leaving Strathleckie?" said Elizabeth, with
her eyes bent steadfastly upon the table-cloth.
"Think of leaving! My dear Lizzie, he has left! Gone: went this morning
before any of us were down. Spoke to me last night about it; I tried to
dissuade him, but his mind was quite made up."
"What reason did he give?"
"Well, he would not tell me the exact reason. I tried to find out, but
he was as close as--as--wax," said Mr. Heron, trying to find a suitable
simile. "He said he was much obliged to us all for our kindness to him;
had no fault to find with anything or anybody; liked the place; but, all
the same, he wanted to go, and go he must. I offered him double the
salary--at least, I hinted as much: I knew you would not object, Lizzie
dear, but it was no use. Partly family affairs; partly private reasons:
that was all I could get out of him."
Mr. Heron's long speech left Elizabeth the time to consider what to say.
"It does not matter very much," she answered at length, indifferently:
"we can find someone who will teach the boys quite as well, I have no
doubt."
"Do you think so?" asked Mr. Heron. "Well, perhaps so. But, you see, it
is not always easy to get a tutor at this time of the year, Elizabeth;
and, besides, we shall not find one, perhaps, so ready to read Italian
with you, as Mr. Stretton used to do----"
Oh, those Italian readings! How well she remembered them! How the
interest which Mr. Stretton had from the first inspired in her had grown
and strengthened in the hours that they spent together, with heads bent
over the same page, and hearts throbbing in unison over the lines that
spoke of Dante's Beatrice, or Petrarca's Laura! She shuddered at the
remembrance, now fraught to her with keenest pain.
"I shall not want to read Italian again," she said, rising from the
table. "We had better advertise for a tutor, Uncle Alfred, unless you
think the boys might run wild for a little while, or unless Percival can
find us one."
"Shall you be writing to Percival to-day, my dear?"
"I don't know."
"Because you might mention that Mr. Stretton has left us. I am afraid
that Percival will be glad," said Mr. Heron, with a little laugh; "he
had an unaccountable dislike to poor Stretton."
"Yes, Percival will be glad," said Elizabeth, turning mechanically to
leave the room. At the door she paused. "Mr. Stretton left an address, I
suppose?"
"No, he did not. He said he would write to me when his plans were
settled. And I'm sorry to say he would not take a cheque. I pressed it
upon him, and finally left it on the table for him--where I found it
again this morning. He said that he had no right to it, leaving as
suddenly as he did--some crochet of that kind. I should think that
Stretton could be very Quixotic if he chose."
"When he writes," said Elizabeth, "you will send him the cheque, will
you not, Uncle Alfred? I do not think that he is very well off; and it
seems a pity that he should be in want of money for the sake of--of--a
scruple."
She did not wait for a reply, but closed the door behind her, and stood
for a few moments in the hall, silently wondering what to do and where
to go. Finally she put on her garden hat and went out into the grounds.
She felt that she must be alone.
A sort of numbness came over her. He had gone, without a word, without
making any effort to see her again. His "Good-bye" had been spoken in
solemn earnest. He had been stronger than Elizabeth; although in
ordinary matters it might be thought that her nature was the stronger of
the two. There was nothing, therefore, for her to say or do; she could
not write to him, she could not call him back. If she could have done so
she would. She had never known before what it was to hunger for the
sight of a beloved face, to think of the words that she might have said,
and long to say them. She did not as yet know by what name to call her
misery. Only, little by little she woke up to the fact that it was what
people meant when they spoke of love. Then she began to understand her
position. She had promised to marry Percival Heron, but her heart was
given to the penniless tutor who called himself John Stretton.