“To stay?” I asked.
He smiled, and shook his head.
“I can’t say that, darling,” he said; he was going towards the door.
“But you’ll be here early tomorrow; do you think before two?”
“No, not before two, I am afraid. I may be delayed, and it is a long way; but you may look out for me early in the evening.”
Then came a leavetaking. He would not let me come with him to the hall-door — there were servants there, and I looked so ill. I stood at the window and saw him drive away. You may suppose I did feel miserable. I think I was near fainting again when he was gone.
In a little time I was sufficiently recovered to get up to my room, and then I rang for Rebecca Torkill.
I don’t know how that long evening went by. The night came, and a miserable nervous night I passed, starting in frightful dreams from the short dozes I was able to snatch.
CHAPTER LXII.
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 drawingroom. 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 tomorrow. 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 tonight, 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 tomorrow. 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. Goodbye, Ethel, darling, till tomorrow. 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.
CHAPTER LXIII.
AT THE THREE NUNS.
When Richard Marston left me, his chaise stood at the door, with a team of four horses, quite necessary to pull a four-wheeled carriage over the fells, through whose gorges the road to the nearest railway-station is carried.
The pleasant setting sun flashed over the distant fells, and glimmered on the pebbles of the courtyard, and cast a long shadow of Richard Marston, as he stood upon the steps, looking down upon the yellow, worn flags, in dark thought.
“Here, put this in,” he said, handing his only piece of luggage, a black leather travelling-bag, to one of the postboys. “You know the town of Golden Friars?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, stop at Mr. Jarlcot’s house.”
Away went the chaise, with its thin roll of dust, like the smoke of a hedge-fire, all along the road, till they pulled up at Mr. Jarlcot’s house.
Out jumped Mr. Marston, and knocked a sharp summons with the brass knocker on the hall-door.
The maid opened the door, and stood on the step with a mysterious look of inquiry in Mr. Marston’s face. The rumour that was already slowly spreading in Golden Friars had suddenly been made sure by a telegraphic message from Lemuel Blount to Mr. Jarlcot. His good wife had read it just five minutes before Mr. Marston’s arrival.
“When is Mr. Jarlcot to be home again?”
“Day after tomorrow, please, sir.”
“Well, when he comes, don’t forget to tell him I called. No, this is better,” and he wrote in pencil on his card the date and the words, “Called twice — most anxious to see Mr. Jarlcot;” and laid it on the table. “Can I see Mr. Spaight?” he inquired.
Tall, stooping Mr. Spaight, the confidential man, with his bald head, spectacles, and long nose, emerged politely, with a pen behind his ear, at this question, from the door of the front room, which was Mr. Jarlcot’s office.
“Oh! Mr. Spaight,” said Richard Marston, “have you heard from Mr. Jarlcot to-day?”
“A short letter, Mr. Marston, containing nothing of business — only a few items of news; he’s in London till tomorrow — he saw Mr. Blount there.”
“Then he has heard, of course, of our misfortune?”
“Yes, sir; and we all sympathise with you, Mr. Marston, deeply, sir, in your affliction. Will you please to step in, sir, and look at the letter?”
Mr. Marston accepted the invitation.
There were two or three sentences that interested him.
“I have had a conversation with Mr. Blount this morning. He fears very much that Sir Harry did not execute the will. I saw Messrs. Hutt and Babbage, who drafted the will; but they can throw no light upon the matter, and say that the result of a search, only, can; which Mr. Blount says won’t take five minutes to make.”
This was interesting; but the rest was rubbish. Mr. Marston took his leave, got into the chaise again, and drove under the windows of the “George and Dragon,” along the already deserted road that ascends the fells from the margin of the lake.
Richard Marston put his head from the window and looked back; there was no living creature in his wake. Before him he saw nothing but the postboys’ stooping backs, and the horses with their four patient heads bobbing before him. The light was failing, still it would have served to read by for a little while; and there was something he was very anxious to read. He was irresolute — there was a risk in it — he could not make up his mind.
He looked at his watch — it would take him nearly three hours to reach the station at the other side of the fells. Unlucky the delay at Dorracleugh!
The light failed. White mists began to crawl across the road, and were spreading and rising fantastically on the hillsides. The moon came out. He was growing more impatient. In crossing a mountain the eye measures so little distance gained for the time expended. The journey seemed, to him, interminable.
At one of the zig-zag turns of the road, there rises a huge fragment of white stone, bearing a rude resemblance to a horseman; a highwayman, you might fancy him, awaiting the arrival of the travellers. In Richard’s eye it took the shape of old Sir Harry Rokestone, as he used to sit, when he had reined in his tall iron-grey hunter, and was waiting to have a word with some one coming up.
He muttered something as he looked sternly ahead at this fantastic reminder. On they drove; the image resolved itself into its rude sides and angles, and was passed; and the pale image of Sir Harry no longer waylaid his nephew.
Slowly the highest point of the road was gained, and then begins the flying descent; and the well-known landmarks, as he consults his watch, from time to time, by the moonlight, assure hi
m that they will reach the station in time to catch the train.
He is there. He pays his postboys, and with his black travelling-bag in hand, runs out upon the gravelled front, from which the platform extends its length.
“The up-train not come yet?” inquired the young man, looking down the line eagerly.
“Not due for four minutes, Mr. Marston,” said the station-master, with officious politeness, “and we shall hardly have it up till some minutes later. They are obliged to slacken speed in the Malwyn cutting at present. Your luggage all right, I hope? Shall I get your ticket for you, Mr. Marston?”
The extraordinary politeness of the official had, perhaps, some connection with the fact that the rumour of Sir Harry’s death was there already, and the Rokestone estates extended beyond the railway. Richard Marston was known to be the only nephew of the deceased baronet, and to those who knew nothing of the interior politics of the family, his succession appeared certain.
Mr. Marston thanked him, but would not give him the trouble; he fancied that the station-master, who was perfectly innocent of any treacherous design, wished to play the part of a detective, and find out all he could about his movements and belongings.
Richard Marston got away from him as quickly as he civilly could, without satisfying his curiosity on any point. The train was up, and the doors clapping a few minutes later; and he, with his bag, rug, and umbrella, got into his place with a thin, sour old lady in black, opposite; a nurse at one side, with two children in her charge, who were always jumping down on people’s feet, or climbing up again, and running to the window, and bawling questions with incessant clamour; and at his other side, a mummy-coloured old gentleman with an olive-green cloth cap, the flaps of which were tied under his chin, and a cream-coloured muffler.
He had been hoping for a couple of hours’ quiet — perhaps a tenantless carriage. This state of things for a man in search of meditation was disappointing.
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 652
