“He began at length to talk upon that other theme that lay so near our hearts; our pace grew slower and slower as he spoke on, until we came to a standstill under the great beech-tree, on whose bark our initials, now spread by time and touched with lichen, but possibly still legible, are carved.
“Well, he has spoken, and I have answered — I can’t remember our words; but we are betrothed in the sight of Heaven by vows that nothing can ever cancel, till those holier vows, plighted at the altar-steps, are made before God himself, or until either shall die.
“Oh! Richard, my love, and is it true? Can it be that you love your poor Ethel with a love so tender, so deep, so desperate? He has loved me, he says, ever since he first saw me, on the day after his escape, in the garden at Malory!
“I liked him from the first. In spite of all their warnings, I could not bring myself to condemn or distrust him long. I never forgot him during the years we have been separated; he has been all over the world since, and often in danger, and I have suffered such great and unexpected changes of fortune — to think of our being brought together at last! Has not Fate ordained it?
“The only thing that darkens the perfect sunshine of to-day is that our attachment and engagement must be a secret. He says so, and I am sure he knows best. He says that Sir Harry has not half forgiven him yet, and that he would peremptorily forbid our engagement. He could unquestionably effect our separation, and make us both inexpressibly miserable. But when I look at Sir Harry’s kind, melancholy face, and think of all he has done for me, my heart upbraids me, and tonight I had to turn hastily away, for my eyes filled suddenly with tears.”
CHAPTER LVII.
AN AWKWARD PROPOSAL.
I will here make a few extracts more from my diary, because they contain matters traced there merely in outline, and of which it is more convenient to present but a skeleton account.
“May 11th. — Richard went early to his farm to-day. I told him last night that I would come down to see him off this morning. But he would not hear of it; and again enjoined the strictest caution. I must do nothing to induce the least suspicion of our engagement, or even of our caring for each other. I must not tell Rebecca Torkill a word about it, nor hint it to any one of the few friends I correspond with. I am sure he is right; but this secrecy is very painful. I feel so treacherous, and so sad, when I see Sir Harry’s kind face.
“Richard was back at three o’clock; we met by appointment, in the same path, in Lynder Wood. He has told ever so much, of which I knew nothing before. Mr. Blount told him, he says, that Sir Harry means to leave me an annuity of two hundred a year. How kind and generous! I feel more than ever the pain and meanness of my reserve. He intends to leave Richard eight hundred a year, and the farm at the other side of the lake. Richard thinks, if he had not displeased him, he would have done more for him. All this, that seems to me very noble, depends, however, upon his continuing to like us, as he does at present. Richard says that he will settle everything he has in the world upon me. It hurts me, his thinking me so mercenary, and talking so soon upon the subject of money and settlements; I let him see this, for the idea of his adding to what my benefactor Sir Harry intended for me had not entered my mind.
“‘It is just, my darling, because you are so little calculating for yourself that I must look a little forward for you,’ he said, and so tenderly. ‘Whose business is it now to think of such things for you, if not mine? And you won’t deny me the pleasure of telling you that I can prevent, thank Heaven, some of the dangers you were so willing to encounter for my sake.’
“Then he told me that the bulk of Sir Harry’s property is to go to people not very nearly related to him, called Strafford; and he gave me a great charge not to tell a word of all this to a living creature, as it would involve him in a quarrel with Mr. Blount, who had told him Sir Harry’s intentions under the seal of secrecy.
“I wish I had not so many secrets to keep; but his goodness to me makes me love Sir Harry better every day. I told him all about Sir Harry’s little talk with me about his will. I can have no secrets now from Richard.”
For weeks, for months, this kind of life went on, eventless, but full of its own hopes, misgivings, agitations. I loved Golden Friars for many reasons, if things so light as associations and sentiments can so be called — founded they were, however, in imagination and deep affection. One of these was and is that my darling mother is buried there; and the simple and sad inscription on her monument, in the pretty church, is legible on the wall opposite the Rokestone pew.
“That’s a kind fellow, the vicar,” said Sir Harry; “a bit too simple; but if other sirs were like him, there would be more folk in the church to hear the sermon!”
When Sir Harry made this speech, he and I were sitting in the boat, the light evening air hardly filled the sails, and we were tacking slowly back and forward on the mere, along the shore of Golden Friars. It was a beautiful evening in August, and the little speech and our loitering here were caused by the sweet music that pealed from the organ through the open church windows. The good old vicar was a fine musician; and often in the long summer and autumn evenings, the lonely old man visited the organ-loft and played those sweet and solemn melodies that so well accorded with the dreamlike scene.
It was the music that recalled the vicar to Sir Harry’s thoughts — but his liking for him was not all founded upon that, nor even upon his holy life and kindly ways. It was this: that when he read the service at mamma’s funeral, the white-haired vicar, who remembered her a beautiful child, wept — and tears rolled down his old cheeks as with upturned eyes he repeated the noble and pathetic farewell.
When it was over, Sir Harry, who had a quarrel with the vicar before, came over and shook him by the hand, heartily and long, speaking never a word — his heart was too full. And from that time he liked him, and did not know how to show it enough.
In these long, lazy tacks, sweeping slowly by the quaint old town in silence, broken only by the ripple of the water along the planks, and the sweet and distant swell of the organ across the water, the time flew by. The sun went down in red and golden vapours, and the curfew from the ivied tower of Golden Friars sounded over the darkened lake — the organ was heard no more — and the boat was making her slow way back again to Dorracleugh.
Sir Harry looked at me very kindly, in silence, for awhile. He arranged a rug about my feet, and looked again in my face.
“Sometimes you look so like bonny Mabel — and when you smile — ye mind her smile? ’Twas very pretty.”
Then came a silence.
“I must tell Renwick, when the shooting begins, to send down a brace of birds every day to the vicar,” said Sir Harry. “I’ll be away myself in a day or two, and I shan’t be back again for three weeks. I’ll take a house in London, lass — I won’t have ye moping here too long — you’d begin to pine for something to look at, and folks to talk to, and sights to see.”
I was alarmed, and instantly protested that I could not imagine any life more delightful than this at Golden Friars.
“No, no; it won’t do — you’re a good lass to say so — but it’s not the fact — oh, no — it isn’t natural — I can’t take you to balls, and all that, for I don’t know the people that give them — and all my great lady friends that I knew when I was a younker, are off the hooks by this time — but there’s plenty of sights to see besides — there’s the waxworks, and the wild beasts, and the players, and the pictures, and all the shows.”
“But I assure you, I like Golden Friars, and my quiet life at Dorracleugh, a thousand times better than all the sights and wonders in the world,” I protested.
If he had but known half the terror with which I contemplated the possibility of my removal from my then place of abode, he would have given me credit for sincerity in my objections to our proposed migration to the capital.
“No, I say, it won’t do; you women can’t bring yourselves ever to say right out to us men what you think; you mean well — you’re
a good little thing — you don’t want to put the auld man out of his way — but you’d like Lunnon best, and Lunnon ye shall have. You shall have a house you can see your auld acquaintance in, such, I mean, as showed themselves goodnatured when all went wrong wi’ ye. You shall show them ye can haud your head as high as ever, and are not a jot down in the world. Never mind, I have said it.”
In vain I protested; Sir Harry continued firm. One comfort was that he would not return to put his threat into execution for, at least, three weeks. If anything was wanting to complete my misery, it was Sir Harry’s saying after a little silence:
“And see, lass; don’t you tell a word of it to Richard Marston; ‘twould only make him fancy I’m going to take him; and I’d as lief take the devil — so mind ye, it’s a secret.”
I smiled as well as I could, and said something that seemed to satisfy him, or he took it for granted, for he went on and talked, being much more communicative this evening than usual; while my mind was busy with the thought of a miserable separation, and all the difficulties of correspondence that accompany a secret engagement.
So great was the anguish of these anticipations that I hazarded one more effort to induce him to abandon his London plans, and to let me continue to enjoy my present life at Dorracleugh.
He was, however, quite immovable; he laughed; he told me, again and again, that it would not “put him out of his way — not a bit;” and he added, “You’re falling into a moping, unnatural life, and you’ve grown to like it, and the more you like it, the less it is fit for you; if you lose your spirits, you can’t keep your health long.”
And when I still persisted, he looked in my face a little darkly, on a sudden, as if a doubt as to my motive had crossed his mind. That look frightened me. I felt that matters might be worse.
Sir Harry had got it into his head, I found, that my health would break down, unless he provided the sort of change and amusement which he had decided on. I don’t know to which of the wiseacres of Golden Friars I was obliged for this crotchet, which promised me such an infinity of suffering, but I had reason to think, afterwards, that old Miss Goulding of Wrybiggins was the friend who originated these misgivings about my health and spirits. She wished, I was told, to marry her niece to Richard Marston, and thought, if I and Sir Harry were out of the way, her plans would act more smoothly.
Richard was at home — it was our tea-time — I had not an opportunity of saying a word to him unobserved. I don’t know whether he saw by my looks that I was unhappy.
CHAPTER LVIII.
DANGER.
Sir Harry took his coffee with us, and read to me a little now and then from the papers which had come by the late mails. Mr. Blount had farming news to tell Richard. It was a dreadful tea-party.
I was only able that night to appoint with Richard to meet me, next day, at our accustomed trysting-place.
Three o’clock was our hour of meeting. The stupid, feverish day dragged on, and the time at length arrived. I got on my things quickly, and trembling lest I should be joined by Sir Harry or Mr. Blount, I betook myself through the orchard, and by the wicket in the hedge, to the lonely path through the thick woods where we had, a few months since, plighted our troth.
Richard appeared very soon; he was approaching by the path opposite to that by which I had come.
The foliage was thick and the boughs hang low in that place. You could have fancied him a figure walking in the narrow passage of a monastery, so dark and well-defined is the natural roofing of the pathway there. He raised his open hand, and shook his head as he drew near; he was not smiling; he looked very sombre.
He glanced back over his shoulder, and looked sharply down the path I had come by, and being now very near me, with another gloomy shake of the head, he said, with a tone and look of indescribable reproach and sorrow: “So Ethel has her secrets, and tells me but half her mind.”
“What can you mean, Richard?”
“Ah! Ethel, I would not have treated you so,” he continued.
“You distract me, Richard; what have I done?”
“I have heard it all by accident, I may say, from old Mr. Blount, who has been simpleton enough to tell me. You have asked my uncle to take you to London, and you are going.”
“Asked him! I have all but implored of him to leave me here. I never heard a word of it till last night, as we returned together in the boat. Oh! Richard, how could you think such things? That is the very thing I have been so longing to talk to you about.”
“Ethel, darling, are you opening your heart entirely to me now; is there no reserve? No; I am sure there is not; you need not answer.”
“It is distracting news; is there nothing I can do to prevent it?” I said.
He looked miserable enough, as walking slowly along the path, and sometimes standing still, we talked it over.
“Yes,” he said; “the danger is that you may lead him by resistance to look for some secret motive. If he should suspect our engagement, few worse misfortunes could befall us. Good heavens! shall I ever have a quiet home? Ethel, I know what will happen — you will go to London; I shall be forgotten. It will end in the ruin of all my hopes.” So he raved on.
I wept, and upbraided, and vowed my old vows over again.
At length after this tempestuous scene had gone on for some time, we two walking side by side up and down the path, and sometimes stopping short, I crying, if you will, like a fool, he took my hand and looked in my face very sadly, and he said after a little:
“Only I know that he would show more anger, I should have thought that my uncle knew of our engagement, and was acting expressly to frustrate it. He has found work for me at his property near Hull, and from that I am to go to Warwickshire, so that I suppose I can’t be here again before the middle of October, and long before then you will be at Brighton, where, Mr. Blount says, he means to take you first, and from that to London.”
“But you are not to leave this immediately?” I said.
He smiled bitterly, and answered:
“He takes good care I shall. I am to leave this tomorrow morning.”
I could not speak for a moment.
“Oh, Richard, Richard, how am I to live through this separation?” I cried wildly. “You must contrive some way to see me. I shall die unless you do.”
“Come, Ethel, let us think it over; it seems to me that we have nothing for it, for the present, but submission. I am perfectly certain that our attachment is not suspected. If it were, far more cruel and effectual measures would be taken. We must, therefore, be cautious. Let us betray nothing of our feelings. You shall see me undergo the ordeal with the appearance of carelessness, and even cheerfulness, although my heart be bursting. You, darling, must do the same; one way or other I will manage to see you sometimes, and to correspond regularly. We are bound each to the other by promises we dare not break, and when I desert you, may God desert me! Ethel, will you say the same?”
“Yes, Richard,” I repeated, vehemently, through sobs, “when I forsake you, may God forsake me! You know I could not live without you. Oh! Richard, darling, how shall I see you all this evening, knowing it to be the last? How can I look at you, or hear your voice, and yet no sign, and talk or listen just as usual, as if nothing had gone wrong? Richard, is there no way to escape? Do you think if we told your uncle? Might it not be the best thing after all? Could it possibly make matters worse?”
“Yes, it would, a great deal worse; that is not to be thought of,” said Richard, with a thoughtful frown; “I know him better than you do. No; we have nothing for it but patience, and entire trust in one another. As for me, if I am away from you, the more solitary I am, the more bearable my lot. With you it will be different; you will soon be in the stream and whirl of your old life. I shall lose you, Ethel.” He stamped on the ground, and struck his forehead with his open hand in sheer distraction. “As for me, I can enjoy nothing without you; I may have been violent, wicked, reckless, what you will; but selfish or fickle, no one ever called me.
”
I was interrupting him all the time with my passionate vows of fidelity, which he seemed hardly to hear; he was absorbed in his own thoughts. After a silence of a minute or two, he said, suddenly:
“Look here, Ethel; if you don’t like your London life, you can’t be as well there as here, and you can, if you will, satisfy my uncle that you are better, as well as happier, here at Golden Friars. You can do that, and that is the way to end it — the only way to end it that I see. You can write to me, Ethel, without danger. You will, I know, every day, just a line; and when you tell me how to address mine, you shall have an answer by every post. Don’t go out in London, Ethel; you must promise that.”
I did, vehemently and reproachfully. I wondered how he could suspect me of wishing to go out. But I could not resent the jealousy that proved his love.
It was, I think, just at this moment that I heard a sound that made my heart bound within me, and then sink with terror. It was the clear, deep voice of Sir Harry, so near that it seemed a step must bring him round the turn in the path, and full in view of us.
“Go, darling, quickly,” said Richard, pressing me gently with one hand, and with the other pointing in the direction furthest from the voice that was so near a signal of danger. He himself turned, and walked quickly to meet Sir Harry, who was conferring with his ranger about thinning the timber.
I was out of sight in a moment, and, in agitation indescribable, made my way home.
CHAPTER LIX.
AN INTRUDER.
It was all true. Richard left Dorracleugh early next morning. Those who have experienced such a separation know its bitterness, and the heartache and apathy that follow.
I was going to be left quite alone, and mistress at Dorracleugh for three weeks at least; perhaps for twice as long. Mr. Blount was to leave next day for France, to pay a visit of a fortnight to Vichy. Sir Harry Rokestone, a few days later, was to leave Dorracleugh for Brighton.
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 650