"Love, when 'tis true, needs not the aid
Of sighs, or oaths, to make it known."
_Sir C. Sedley_.
"To-morrow" was a fine day at last. And Lilias was up betimes. It was
the day before that of her leaving home, and, notwithstanding the great
preliminary preparations, there were still innumerable last packings to
do, arrangements to be made, and directions given--all complicated by
Mary's absence. Then there was Mary to see, and not wishing to be
hurried in the long talk with her, without which Lilias felt it would
really be impossible to start on her journey, she set off pretty early
for the farm.
It was a great bore certainly, as Josey expressed it, that Mary should
be away just at this particular juncture. Lilias missed her at every
turn, and felt far from happy at leaving her mother without either of
her "capable" daughters at hand, especially as Mr Brandreth had plainly
given Mrs Western to understand that Mary's stay at the Edge, if it
were to do real and lasting good, might have to be prolonged over two or
three weeks.
"That poor girl will not know how she is till she gets over the first
shock of her accident," he had said; "and if, as I much fear, there is
any actual injury, she may be thrown back into a brain fever if there is
no sensible, cheerful person beside her to help her over the first brunt
of such a discovery."
"But do you think her _badly_ hurt--crippled, perhaps, for life?"
Lilias had asked, with infinite sympathy in her face. "What a fate!"
she was saying to herself; "far better, in _my_ opinion, to have been
killed outright than to live to be an object of pity, and even, perhaps,
shrinking, on the part of others. Fancy such a thing befalling me, and
my being afraid of Arthur ever seeing me again!"
She gave an involuntary shiver as she made her inquiry of Mr Brandreth,
who looked surprised.
"Why, Miss Lilias," he said, "you've not half your sister's nerve! What
have you been doing to yourself, you don't look half so strong and
vigorous as you used to."
"That is why she is going away," said her mother, quietly. "She has not
been well lately. But tell us about poor Miss Cheviott, please."
"I do not think she will be crippled for life--nothing so bad as that--
but she will probably have to lie and rest for a long time. The great
point is to get her well over the first of it, and that is why I am so
anxious for Mary to stay."
And so it had been decided, and somehow, in spite of her regret at its
happening just at this time, Lilias could not bring herself to feel
altogether distressed at Mary's remaining at the farm; and though she
did not exactly express this to her sister, Mary did not remain
unconscious of it.
"I wish I were not going away, then it would be all right," she said,
when they were sitting together in the farm-house kitchen.
"I am most particularly glad you are going away," Mary replied. "I
hardly know that I could have agreed to stay here, had you not been
going away."
"Why?" asked Lilias, opening wide her blue eyes. "Because--because--oh!
I can't exactly put it into words," replied Mary. "You might
understand without my saying." But seeing that Lilias still looked
inquiringly, she went on: "Don't you see--I don't want these
people--_him_, I mean," (Mr Cheviott had ridden over to Romary),--"to
think we would take advantage of this accident--this wholly fortuitous
circumstance, not of their seeking, and assuredly not of ours, of my
being thrown into their society, to bring about any intimacy, any
possible endeavour to recall--you know whom I mean--to--to what we had
begun to think might be."
"Your powers of expressing yourself are certainly not increasing, my
dear Mary," said Lilias, with a smile, though the quick colour mounted
to her cheeks. "I really do think you worry yourself quite
unnecessarily about what Mr Cheviott thinks or doesn't think. I cannot
believe, as I have always said--I cannot believe he has been to blame as
much as you imagine. Don't you like him any better now that you have
seen more of him?"
"I don't _want_ to like him better," said Mary, honestly. "He is, of
course, most courteous and civil to me--more than that, he is really
considerate and kind, and certainly he is a cultivated and intelligent
man, and not, in some ways, so narrow-minded as might have been
expected. But I don't _want_ to like him, or think better of him;
whenever I seem to be tempted to do so it all rises before me--selfish,
cold, _cruel_ man, to interfere with your happiness, my Lily."
Mary gave herself a sort of shake of indignation.
"You are a queer girl, Mary," said Lilias, putting a hand on each of her
sister's shoulders, and looking down--Lilias was the taller of the two--
deep down into her eyes--blue into brown. The brown eyes were
unfathomable in their mingled expression--into the blue ones there crept
slowly two or three tears. But Lilias dashed them away before they
fell, and soon after the sisters kissed each other and said good-bye.
"I wonder," said Lilias to herself, as she stood still for a moment at
the juncture of the two ways home, debating whether or not she might
indulge herself by choosing the pleasanter but more circuitous path
through the woods.
"I wonder if anything will have happened--anything of consequence, I
mean--before I see Mary again, six weeks or so hence."
An idle, childish sort of speculation, but one not without its charm for
even the wiser ones among us sometimes, when the prize that would make
life so perfect a thing is tantalisingly withheld from us, or, alas!
when, in darker, less hopeful days, there is _no_ break in the clouds
about our path, and in the weariness of long-continued gloom we would
almost cry to Fate itself to help us!--Fate which, in those seasons, we
dare not call God, for no way of deliverance that our human judgment can
call Divine seems open to us. Will nothing _happen_?--something we dare
not _wish_ for, to deliver us from the ruggedness of the appointed road
from which, in faint-hearted cowardice, we shrink, short-sightedly
forgetting that, to the brave and faithful, "strength as their days"
shall be given.
But in no such weariness of spirit did Lilias Western "wonder" to
herself; she was young and vigorous; there was a definite goal for her
hopefulness; her visions of the future could take actual shape and
clothing--and how much of human happiness does such an admission not
involve? She "wondered" only because, notwithstanding the
disappointment and trial she had to bear, life was still to her so full
of joyful possibilities, of golden pictures, in the ultimate realisation
of which she could not as yet but believe.
"Yes," she repeated, as, deciding that a delay of ten minutes was the
worst risk involved, she climbed the narrow stile into the wood--"yes, I
_wonder_ how things will be when dear Mary and I are together again?
Such queer things have happened already among us. Who _could_ have
imagined such a thing as Mary's being `domesticated' with the Cheviotts?
I wonder if Arthur Beverley will hear of it? Oh, I do, do wish I was
not going away to-morrow!"
She stopped short again for a moment, and looked about her. How well
she remembered the spot where she was standing! It was not far from the
place where she and her sisters had met Captain Beverley that day when
he had walked back with them to the Rectory. How they had all laughed
and chattered!--how very long ago it seemed now! Lilias gazed all round
her, and then hastened on again, and as she did so, somewhat to her
surprise, far in front of her, at the end apparently of the wood alley
which she was facing, she distinguished a figure approaching her. It
was at some distance off when she first saw it, but the leafless
branches intercepted but little of the light, which to-day was clear and
undeceptive.
"It must be papa," she said to herself, when she was able to distinguish
that the figure was that of a man--"papa coming to meet me, or possibly
he may be going on to see Mary at the farm."
She hurried on eagerly, but when nearer the approaching intruder, again
she suddenly relaxed her pace. Were her eyes deceiving her? Had her
fancy played her false, and conjured up some extraordinary illusion to
mislead her, or was it--could it be Arthur Beverley himself who was
hastening towards her? Hastening?--yes, hastening so quickly that in
another moment there was no possibility of any longer doubting that it
was indeed he, and that he recognised her. But no smile lit up his face
as he drew near; he looked strangely pale and anxious, and a vague
misgiving seized Lilias; her heart began to beat so fast that she could
scarcely hear the first words he addressed to her--she hardly noticed
that he did not make any attempt to shake hands with her.
"Miss Western," he said, in a low, constrained, and yet agitated tone,
"I do not know whether I am glad or sorry to meet you. I do not know
whether I _dare_ say I am glad to meet you." He glanced up at her for
an instant with such appeal and wistfulness in his eyes that Lilias
turned her face away to prevent his seeing the quick rush of tears that
_would_ come. "What you must have thought of me, I cannot let myself
think," he went on, speaking more hurriedly and nervously. "But you
will let me ask you something, will you not? You seem to be coming from
the farm--tell me, I implore you, have you by any chance heard how my
poor cousin is? Is she still alive? She cannot--she _must_ not be
dead!"
His wildness startled Lilias. A rush of mingled feelings for an instant
made it impossible for her to reply. What could be the meaning of it
all? Why this exaggerated anxiety about Alys Cheviott, and at the same
time this tone of almost abject self-blame? Lilias felt giddy, and
almost sick with apprehension--was her faith about to be uprooted? her
trust flung back into her face? Were Mary's misgivings about to be
realised? Was it true that Arthur, influenced by motives she could but
guess at, had deserted her for his cousin?
Captain Beverley misinterpreted her silence. His face grew still paler.
"I see what you mean," he said, excitedly. "She _is_ dead, and you
shrink from telling me. Good God, what an ending to it all!"
A new sensation seized Lilias--a strange rush of indignation against
this man, so false, yet so wanting in self-control and delicacy as to
parade his grief for the girl he imagined he had lost, to the girl whose
heart he had gained, but to toss it aside! She turned upon him fierily.
"No," she said, "she is not dead, nor the least likely to die. I have
nothing more to say to you, Captain Beverley. Be so good as to let me
pass."
For he was standing right in front of her, blocking up the path. At her
first words he drew a deep breath of relief and was on the point of
interrupting her, but her last sentences seemed to stagger, and then to
petrify him. He did not speak, he only stood and looked at her as if
stupefied.
"Why are you so indignant?" he said at last. "Why should I not ask you
how Alys is?"
"Why should you?" Lilias replied. "She is your own cousin. _I_
scarcely know her by sight--we are not even acquaintances. Captain
Beverley, I must again ask you to let me pass on."
Half mechanically the young man stood aside, but as Lilias was about to
pass him he again made a step forward.
"Miss Western--Lilias," he exclaimed, "I shall go mad if you leave me
like this. I had been thinking, hoping wildly and presumptuously, you
may say, that, in spite of all, in spite of the frightful way
appearances have been against me, you--you were still," he dropped his
voice so low that Lilias could scarcely catch the words, "still
_trusting_ me."
Lilias looked up bravely.
"So I was," she said.
"And why not `so I _am_'?" he said, eagerly, his fair fare flushing
painfully.
Lilias hesitated.
"I don't know," she said at last. "I cannot understand you and--and
your manner to-day."
Captain Beverley sighed deeply.
"And I--I cannot, dare not explain," he said, sorrowfully. "Don't
misunderstand me," he added, hastily, seeing a quick, questioning glance
from Lilias at the word "dare."
"I mean I am bound for the sake of others not to explain. I have,
indeed, I now see, been bound hand and foot by the folly of others
almost ever since I was born! There is nothing I would not wish to
explain to you, nothing that I should not be thankful for you to know--
but I cannot tell it you! Was ever man placed in such a position
before?" He stopped and appeared to be considering deeply. "Lilias,"
he went on, earnestly, "it seems to me that I am so placed that I must
do one or other of two wrong things. I must break my pledged word, or I
must behave dishonourably to you--which shall it be? Decide for me."
"Neither," said Lilias, without an instant's hesitation. "You shall not
break your word, Arthur, for my sake. And you shall not behave
dishonourably to me, for, whatever you do or don't do, I promise you to
believe that you have done the best you could; I have trusted you,
hitherto, against everybody. Shall I, may I, go on trusting you?"
Arthur looked at her--looked straight into her eyes, and that look was
enough.
"Yes," he said, "you may."
There was silence for a moment or two. Then Arthur added:
"Lilias," he said, "I have not in the past behaved unselfishly--hardly,
some would say, honourably to you. But it was out of thoughtlessness
and ignorance; till I knew you, I did not know myself. I had no idea
how I could care for any woman, and I had ignorantly fancied I never
should. I cannot explain, but I may say one thing. Should you be
afraid of marrying a poor man--a really poor man?"
Lilias smiled.
"I half fancied there was something of that kind," she said. "No," she
went on, "I should not be afraid of marrying _you_ as a poor man. I
have no special love for poverty in the abstract. I know too much of
it. And I am no longer, you know, what people call `a mere girl.' I am
two-and-twenty, and have had time to become practical."
"It looks like it," said Arthur, smiling too.
"But my practicalness _makes_ me not afraid of poverty on the other
hand," pursued Lilias. "I have seen how much happiness can co-exist
with it. My only misgiving is," she hesitated--"you would like me to
speak frankly?"
"Whatever you do I entreat you to be frank," said Arthur, earnestly. "I
don't deserve it, I know, but Heaven knows I would be frank to you if I
could."
"I was only going to say--my people--my parents and Mary, perhaps, might
be more mercenary _for_ me--because they have all spoiled me, and I have
been horribly selfish, and they might think me less fit for a struggling
life than I believe I really am."
"Yes, I can fancy _their_ feelings for you by my own," said Arthur,
sighing. "And how I would have enjoyed enabling you to be a comfort to
them--to your mother, for instance. Lilias, I am cruelly placed."
"Poor fellow!" said Lilias, mischievously.
"Yes," said Arthur, "I am indeed. Will you now," he went on, "tell me
about Alys? How is she, and where?"
Lilias told him all she knew.
"And your sister nursing her," said Arthur. "How extraordinary!"
Notwithstanding his surprise, however, Lilias could see that the idea of
the thing was not unpleasing to him.
"But for that--but for Mary's being with her, you and I would not have
met this morning," she said.
"You may go further and say that but for Alys's accident I should not
have been here," said Arthur, while a shade fell over his sunny
countenance. "It is too cold for you standing here. Let us walk on a
little."
"Are you not going to the farm?" Lilias asked.
"No. Now that I have seen you I shall hurry back the way I came. You
have told me all there is to hear. Poor Alys! Lilias, I _wish_ I could
explain to you why I felt so horribly, so unbearably anxious about her.
I am _very_ fond of her; but once lately when I was nearly beside myself
with perplexity and misery, Laurence--her brother, you know--to bring me
to what _he_ would call my senses, I suppose, said something which has
haunted me ever since I heard of her accident yesterday morning. If she
had been killed I should have felt as if I had killed her."
He looked at Lilias, with a self-reproach and distress in his open
boyish face which touched her greatly--the more as, now that the
brightness had for the moment faded out of his countenance, she could
see how much changed he was, how thin and pale and worn he looked.
"I think I can understand--a very little," she said, gently, "without
your explaining. But you have grown morbid, Arthur. You _know_ you
would suffer anything yourself rather than wish injury to any one."
"I suppose I have grown morbid," he said. "Morbid for want of hope, and
still more from the constant horrible dread of what you must be thinking
of me. I shall not know myself when I get back to C. I may have dark
fits of blaming myself for involving you in my misfortunes--but then to
know that you trust me again! Surely, whatever the world might say, I
have _not_ done wrong, Lilias? To you, I mean?"
"You have given me back my life, and youth, and faith and everything
good," she replied. "Can that be doing me wrong?"
They walked on a little way in silence. Then Arthur stopped.
"I must go, I fear," he said, reluctantly. "And I suppose we must not
write to each other. No, it would not be fair to you to ask it."
"I should not like to write to you without my father and mother's
knowledge," said Lilias.
"No, of course not. And, as I am placed--my difficulties involve
others, that is the worst of it--I do not see that I can avoid asking
you not to mention what has passed to your people, _at present_. Does
that make you uncomfortable?"
Lilias considered.
"No," she said, "I do not see that it alters my position. Hitherto I
have gone on trusting you, without saying anything about it to any one.
Till I met you this afternoon, and your own manner and words misled me,
I have never left off trusting you, Arthur, _never_. And so I shall go
on the same way. But I couldn't write to you without them all knowing.
I mean I should not feel happy in doing so. Besides, it would not be
very much good. You see you cannot explain things to me yet, so we
could not consult together."
"Not yet," said Arthur. "But as you trust me, trust me in this. If
_any_ effort of mine can hasten the explanation, you shall not long be
left in this position. You are doing for me what few girls would do for
a man--do not think I do not know that, and believe that I shall never
forget it. Two years," he went on, in a lower voice, almost as if
speaking to himself, but Lilias caught the words--"two years at longest,
but two years are a long time. And if I take my fate in my own hands,
there is no need for waiting two years."
"Do nothing rash or hasty," said Lilias, earnestly. "Do nothing for
_my_ sake that might injure you. Arthur," she exclaimed, hastily, as a
new light burst upon her, and her face grew pale with anxiety--"Arthur,
_I_ am surely not to be the cause of misfortune to you? Your pledging
yourself to me is surely not going to ruin you? If I thought so! Oh!
Arthur, what would--what _could_ I do?"
Arthur was startled. He felt that already he had all but gone too far,
and Mr Cheviott's words recurred to him. "If the girl be what you
think her, would she accept you if she knew it would be to ruin you?"
Recurred to him, however, but to be rejected as a plausible piece of
special pleading. "Ruin him," yes, indeed, if she, the only woman he
had ever cared for, threw him over, then they _might_ talk of ruining
him. And were there no Lilias in the world, could he have asked Alys to
marry him--Alys, his little sister--now that he knew what it was to love
with a man's whole love?
"Lilias," he said, with earnestness almost approaching solemnity in his
voice, "you must never say such words as those, _never_; whatever
happens, you are the best of life to me. And even if I had returned to
find you married to some one else, my position would have remained the
same. That is all I _can_ say to you. No, I will do nothing rash or
hasty. For your sake I will be careful and deliberate where I would not
be, or might not have been so, for myself."
"Can you not tell me where you are going, or what you are doing?" said
Lilias, with some hesitation.
"Oh, dear, yes! Somehow I fancied you knew. I am at C, studying at the
Agricultural College, studying hard for the first time in my life. My
idea is," he added, speaking more slowly, "to fit myself, if need be,
for employment of a kind I fancy I could get on in--something like
becoming agent to a property--that sort of thing."
Lilias looked up at him with surprise and admiration. This, then, was
what he had been busy about all these weary months, during which
everybody had been speaking or hinting ill of him. Working hard--with
what object was only too clear--to make a home for _her_, should the
mysterious ill-fortune to which he alluded leave him a poor and homeless
man! Lilias's eyes filled with tears--was he _not_ a man to trust?
Then at last they parted--each feeling too deeply for words--but yet
what a happy parting it was!
"To think," said Lilias to herself as she hurried home, "to think how I
was wondering what might happen in the next six weeks--to think what has
happened in the last half hour!"
And Arthur, all the way back to C, his heart filled with the energy and
hopefulness born of a great happiness, could not refrain from going over
and over again the old ground as to whether _something_ could not be
done--could not the Court of Chancery be appealed to? He wished he
could talk it over with Laurence--Laurence who was just as anxious as he
to undo the cruel complication in which they were both placed.
"Only then again," thought Arthur, "that foolish, ridiculous prejudice
of his against the Westerns comes in and prevents his helping me if he
could. And to think of Mary being there as Alys's nurse! How he will
hate the obligation--If it were not so serious for poor Alys, I really
could laugh when I think of Laurence's ruffled dignity in such a
position!"