THE DISINHERITED.
Miss Gwynne and Rowland walked on quietly together for a little space.
There was something in the heart of each, unknown to the other, that
seemed to close up speech. It was nearly five o'clock, and a January
evening; but for the 'pretty moon' and the white mist from the river,
and the frost-bitten snow on the roads, it would have been dark; but it
was really a fine, bright night. That river-mist rose from the meadows
beneath like a large lake, and the moonlight pierced through it and
mingled with it.
It was such a night as lovers of a healthy, natural tone of mind might
rejoice in; frost and snow being no refrigerators of true, honest
warmth, but rather tending to keep it alive, by exhilarating the spirits
and clearing the atmosphere.
Rowland broke the silence, and so clear was the air, that his own voice
startled him.
'I am going to London to-morrow, Miss Gwynne; may I give Mrs Jones some
hope that you will soon be back again?'
'I fear not,' said Freda; 'my father wishes me to remain at home, and I
have decided upon doing so.'
'Not entirely?' asked Rowland, in a voice that all his self-command
could not render calm.
'I believe it is so settled. He makes a great point of it. Lady Mary is
equally urgent, and I have promised. Do you not think it is right?'
'I suppose so; but what shall we do without you?'
Rowland spoke as he felt, from his heart. Miss Gwynne was touched by the
words and tone.
'I shall be very sorry,' she said, simply. 'I never was so happy as in
that dingy old square.'
Rowland felt that his new living, with all its increased
responsibilities, would be a heavy burden to him without Freda's ready
energy to lighten it. He did not at that moment pause to think how
closely even our highest duties are entwined with our affections, and
thereby lowered to earth--but so it is. The conscientious man does them;
but a helping hand, a friendly voice, a loving word, is a wonderful aid
towards doing them with a cheerful spirit.
There was silence for a few minutes between Rowland and Freda, and their
quick steps slackened. At last:
'I thank you from my heart, Miss Gwynne,' said Rowland, for all your
kindness to my dear sister. It must cease, alas! but it will never be
forgotten.'
'Poor Netta! my old playfellow! I was only too thankful to be of any
service. I wish we could have saved her.'
'God knows best. Her husband is in Newgate gaol.'
Rowland said this with a great effort; Freda started, and there was
again a brief silence.
'Miss Gwynne, I have long wished to say to you, how much I have felt
your devotion to the schools and poor of our parish. Now that we are
about to lose you, perhaps, I may do so. Glanyravon will gain what our
poor East End loses.'
'Thank you. If I leave London in a better spirit than I entered it, I am
in great measure indebted to you for it.'
'To me!'
'Yes. I do not wish to flatter, or to be religiously sentimental; but
your practical, simple sermons, and your still more practical life have
done me much good. Now we will not compliment one another any more.'
'Oh, Miss Gwynne! you do not know what you do when you say such words
to me.'
'I simply tell the truth.'
'I, too, have another truth to tell, which, if not told now, will never
be told.'
Freda's heart beat quick, and her face flushed. She was thankful that
silence concealed the one, and night the other. But the truth was not
what the heart whispered, and the pulsation slackened.
'Years ago--I know not how many years, the time seems so long, and yet
so short--I insulted you by words that should never have been said. We
were on this very drive, near this very spot--the same moon was looking
down upon us. This very tree was over our heads. Do you remember? You
do--alas! you must. Pride, most improper pride in one who should be a
teacher of humility, has prevented my alluding to the subject ever
since.'
Rowland paused, and he and Freda stood still beneath that old oak, so
well remembered by both. She did not speak; she could not for the
moment; and Rowland continued,--
'Those words, which called forth your severe and deserved reproof,
should never have been said; but your kindness, the hour, the scene, my
own excited feelings, my--in short, they were called forth
involuntarily, but were wholly inexcusable. I forgot my birth and
position, and was punished accordingly. Pride has kept me silent ever
since. Pride has prevented my saying that I am sorry now that I so
forgot myself then, and pride has made me cold and reserved to you, when
I saw clearly that you wished to be my friend, and have since proved
yourself such. Will you forgive me?'
Freda did not, as when they once before stood beneath that huge oak,
draw herself up to her full height, and make an indignant answer. She
trembled, and glanced very timidly into the face that looked down upon
hers. There, in the cold moonlight, with the icicles hanging from the
old tree, and the frost-spirit hovering near, she read that face more
truly than she had done in the genial summer moonshine, and wished those
words had never been spoken. She said, gently but decidedly,--
'Mr Rowland, it is I, not you who ought to crave forgiveness. You did me
an honour of which I was not deserving, and, therefore, I could not
appreciate it. I have repented of those proud words almost ever since. I
am heartily ashamed of them, and beg you to try to forget that they were
ever uttered.'
Once more there was a momentary silence, then Rowland said firmly,--
'Miss Gwynne, you must understand that I only regret the boldness of my
conduct, and that I did not conceal my feelings from you as from the
rest of the world. I do not regret the feelings; do not apologise for
them. They were my own, engendered by nature and circumstances, given me
by God, as part of my portion of trial in this world; they grew with me
from childhood, ever since I used to play with you at the vicarage--they
were fostered by your father's kindness and my own self-esteem, as well
as by your presence, which I ought to have fled; they are with me still,
have never left me, will be my weakness and my strength so long as this
earthly warfare lasts.'
'And is it really so?' said Freda, a large tear glittering in the eyes
into which the moon, the frost-spirit, and Rowland were equally looking.
Two hands were tightly clasped that had hitherto scarcely dared to touch
each other; two hearts were for ever united, that hitherto had been as
far estranged as Vesuvius and the icebergs.
I know that many cynical and sentimental readers will ask if there is no
danger of the pair of lovers taking cold on an evening in January,
whilst thus mutually discovering the 'eternal passion' in the presence
of the 'Erl-king.'
Rowland and Freda seem to ask the same question, for, loosening that
close grasp of hands, and without one word of love, they walk hastily
towards the house. Rowland talks rapidly the whole way, interrupted by
an occasional sentence from Freda. Readers, there is no proposal, no
acceptance. The conversation is as follows:--
_Rowland._--I have just received letters from the Bishop of London and
Mr Jones offering me the living, and telling me that the parishioners
wish me for their rector. I am most thankful now, for it puts me in a
very different position--it allows me to hope, and with less
presumption.
_Freda._--It makes no difference to me, you are yourself whether rector
or curate. But I rejoice for your sake, and to know that they appreciate
you.
_Rowland._--You will know and believe that it was Miss Gwynne, Freda,
the woman, not the heiress, that I have loved so long and so well.
_Freda._--I am no longer an heiress; you are far the best off.
_Rowland._--I am most thankful. Had this wide park still been yours, I
could never have said what I have dared to say to-day; but let me repeat
once more your words that I may remember who I am--a farmer's son, your
father's tenant.
_Freda._--A clergyman, a gentleman, and a Christian.
_Rowland._--My brother-in-law a--a--felon.
_Freda._--Yourself not changed by your brother-in-law's crimes.
_Rowland._--If then in the course of another year our present painful
position should be forgotten, or at least, at rest, when I am
established at the rectory as rector, when I can come forward on my own
responsibility, when, in short, I can say without compunction all I now
feel, may I hope?'
_Freda._--Then as now, you may be certain.
They were on the steps before the door of the house; again their hands
were firmly clasped.
_Rowland._--Till then, farewell, and God bless you.
_Freda._--Will you not come in?
_Rowland._--No, I would rather not now.
_Freda._--Then God bless you, and be with you during your coming trial.
And thus they parted, happy, and having perfect faith in one another.