66 BY THE AUTHOR OF "Let him part them who dared."-p. 372. ""DEEPDALE VICARAGE," CHAPTER LXII.-NOT TOO DEARLY BOUGHT. in haste; she has not even said farewell. Let her That sound of wheels was DELA has gone. Her father still go! it is perhaps fitting, and after all the best. the carriage driving away. This may be the last scene stands by the window; he has no wish to see Margaret will die. Her life's history has been a Adela has gone the very last. 235 Reuben, and has declined to do so. YOL. T. chequered and a sad one. ending! This may be its opinion in the negative. He was not a rich man in those days. And for his eldest daughter-his His eye glances round the room on which baby heart's delight, as he used to call her—to marry into playthings lie scattered. precarious circumstances, was so distasteful to him, Is it so very long since Margaret was a child? that he forbade it altogether. He had told her so— How long? when it was too late. He rises, and walks slowly from the room, along the passages. How silent and lonely the house seems! For the time he is childless; does he understand the full meaning of the word "childless?" He goes to his room. There is an old bureau, with a secret drawer. He has not opened it for years and years. It is strange that the desire to do so should come upon him at this moment. It is full of papers and of pictures. The pictures are likenesses. His fingers touch one at the very beginning. Margaret! She was a laughing child when that likeness was taken. He remembers how she sat on his knee. What is that spot on the little dimpled cheek? A tear-a newly-fallen tear! Can it be his? Again, Margaret! Another likeness, and a record' of her. The record speaks of his wife's decease, and how she left to him, as a sacred charge, the baby Adela, and her sweet Margaret. More records still. Yes, a letter. It has been placed here to be shut up amid these annals of the past. This, too, is from Margaret. "I sit and listen," she says, "to his hoarse cough; and watch his face grow every day more sharp and thin. What can I do? I have no means of providing him the comforts he requires. I must see him die, unless you render some assistance. For myself, I would never ask; but for him-" He need read no more He remembers every word. And the man did die. And the letter met with no response. It is an hour of musing and of looking back into that sad irrevocable past. He sees her, his daughter, such as she was then-standing before him to hear his decree. Her hands clasped in entreaty-her eyes full of anguish and terror. He can hear her pleading voice; the echo comes to him, down the vista of all these years: "Do not tear us asunder, or our hearts will break!" He was very proud-he has always been proud and stubborn. If it were so, and she could not give him up, he would have no runaway match to reflect disgrace on him. She should be married from her home, but never would he see her more, And he never had-never, since she went away a bride; never since she came back, at the last moment, to make a final appeal, to pray for his blessing-his forgiveness. But he would not give it. He never had. Yet do not blessings return on the head of the giver? Is not forgiveness God-like ? A strange thought for him at this late hour, when obduracy has done its worst. He shall never see her again. And he puts back the likeness and shuts up the drawer. Never, until And then he shall see them both, Margaret and her husband. Like accusing spirits, they will rise up and testify against him. That day must come. Its solemn footfall sounds along the immeasurabie lapse of ages. It must come, and it will. If it were not too late, he thinks. For ever and anon a better feeling has stirred faintly in his breast, And the sweet child he loves so fondly, and to only to be crushed and quelled. If it were not too whom his heart clings-this was her father! He can only be led up by this channel; these baby hands can guide him, where none else can. He is softened, now; witness the tear. As a He has often thought of Margaret lately, by day, by night; again and again has he remembered her. Sometimes in her childhood, the sport and the pet of the household. In her early girlhood. woman, when she left him for Ernest Seymour. He remembers circumstances which extenuate the act. He remembers his own imprudence in allowing the young man such free access to the house. For a time, blind himself to the fact as he may, he encouraged him. It was too late when he found out his mistake. Far too late when the girl's affections were engaged past recall. "Will the young artist be successful? Has he talent?" he had asked of a competent authority. The authority had shaken his wise head, and given an late, if she had not passed beyond the limits of human aid-he might, why should he not forgive? Let him dwell on the word: There is a healing balm in it; bad passions sear the heart, and make the face old and rugged. Better impulses cause the desert place to blossom, even as the garden of the Lord? Why should he not forgive, if only for the sake of the dear child he loves? This is the link which is making itself felt. It is a bond of union between himself and Margaret. The child is dear to both of them. Should he go? The house is very lonely. His mind is ill at ease; he wanders through the deserted rooms like some restless spirit; he cannot resolve what to do. Sometimes he thinks he will go. It will be too late; he is afraid of that; but some tardy justice, some late honour might be wrung from him, if not to the living, to the dead. A resolve, whether for good or evil, gathers impetus IN DUTY BOUND. as it forms. He passed a sleepless night. The old memories left him no peace. Their haunting voices sounded in his ears like the ceaseless murmur of the waves. Whichever way he looked there was Margaret. Yes, he will go; Adela has left the address. Perhaps a vague wistful hope was in her mind as she did so. He knows the city to which she has gone; he had some business transaction there once, and the way is familiar to him. He will go. The resolution was not so sudden as it seemed. His obduracy had been slowly undermining, day by day, week by week, ever since he had taken to his heart Margaret's child. Early the next morning he started on his journey. He was anxious and impatient. His mind was full of dark forebodings. The end of the journey was wrapt in gloom and uncertainty. He began secretly to pray that he might not find her dead. Yonder is the crowded city with its peopled thousands. Amid them all, one small group alone attracts him-his children. He found the humble lodging where Margaret had taken refuge; he walked up and down before it, to recover his composure; he did not think he could have been so affected. The softer feelings had the mastery over him. He was yearning to embrace Margaret. He did not ask for her, or mention her name. He asked for the lady who had arrived yesterday, meaning Adela; and he sat down until she should be summoned. Very soon she came. It was strange, she thought, that she should receive a visitor here, and the visitor was not Mr. Howard, so the woman told her. How little did she hope to see her father! "Papa-dear papa!" It was all she said. She read the story in his face, and the full consolation of it rushed into her heart. She saw in his softened looks and tearful eyes that again her prayer had been answered. That he was come to see Margaret! He did not speak; he was too greatly agitated. But she knew what to do. Oh! precious opportunity, come indeed at last! She held out her hand; her own tears fell fast. Margaret looked up. The little one was nestling close to her, its golden hair mingled with hers. 371 has answered the prayer offered so long from both our hearts. He is bringing us great happiness and peace at last. Margaret, here is our father." A short interval, a hurried, agitated cry-a quick, eager footstep. The father was in the midst. He had taken her to his arms-to his love—to his forgiveness. His lost one; his Margaret! Would she change now? She who looks on with tears of exquisite gladness. Does she regret the bitter past, the steep and narrow way? Would she have back her garish delights, her resplendent prospects, at the price of a broken faith? At the price of this? Would she even, at such a cost, have back her love? Oh, never, never! Sweet reconciliation; dove-like peace! Thou hast not been bought too dearly. Brood over us for ever! CHAPTER LXIII. JULIET MAKES UP HER MIND. "Of course, Juliet, you will give the young man up?" said Squire Masterman, from his easy chair by the fire, and looking at Juliet through his spectacles. He could not see her face. She was standing in the middle of the room, her face towards the door. One white hand was clenched behind her, but she made no reply to her grandpapa's remark. "Of course, you will give him up?" resumed the squire, in an easier tone; and after having paused a moment, in the expectation that something would be said. To tell you the truth, I am not so very sorry. He never was a suitable match for you, my dear." The white hand clenched itself a trifle tighter; but she was still silent. Her silence emboldened him. This conversation had been carefully studied by him for more than a week, and it was with some degree of uncertainty that he entered upon it. "I had always set my heart upon your making a good match, my dear; and really when one thinks of what has occurred, and of how foolish you have been to let slip" The angry flush that dyed her neck, and the imperious movement of the beautiful head, stopped him. He changed his tactics. "You see what it is to marry poverty in the case of your own parents, Juliet." "I do," she said, slowly and distinctly; "I do.” "Well, then, my dear," he resumed, in a brisker tone, and drawing a letter from his pocket-it had ventured half-way before, and been thrust back again-" well, then, of course we need say nothing more on that head, need we ?" Silence again. "So that I shall pass on," continued the squire, in "Yes," she said, smiling, and pressing again and rather a nervous and hurried manner, "to this-this again the tiny hand to her lips ;-" yes." "Margaret! God has been very good to us. He -letter." She gave a quick angry glance round. Then she resumed her original position-her face away from him. "It is really very handsome of-of-the baronet. He renews his offer, my dear, and you have only to say the word, and become Lady Crossland, of Crossland Hall." "Have you anything more to say?" he asked, in a tone in which blandness and uneasiness were curiously mingled. "No, nothing," replied Luke, moving slowly away. "I only thought I should like once more—— - Juliet," added he, in a tone of sharp distress, "will you not A smile curled the handsome lip of Juliet, but say good-bye?" she did not speak. "You will not be mad enough to fling yourself away on a beggar," he said; "of course, if you do, I cannot pretend—that is, it will be poverty, Juliet, absolute poverty." "Miss Masterman is wise not to try and get up a scene," said the old man, hurriedly. "She knowз what my wishes are, and is behaving with remarkable discretion. Good morning to you, sir. You see the young lady has accepted your generous release She knew what he meant by that-that he would that she gives you up.” withhold her marriage portion. "No!" exclaimed Juliet, coming suddenly forward, At this very moment the servant announced "Mr. and speaking with an energy that startled both of Ormond." them; "no; I do not give him up!" The old man frowned, and puckered up his face into an expression of intense disapprobation. Juliet neither smiled nor frowned, nor made any sign whatever. Luke came in, the picture of a crestfallen and disappointed man. The death of Maude Sibley had not been made public; nor if it had, could he have guessed that his affairs would in any way be influenced by such a catastrophe. His reception was not one which tended to soothe his feelings. The squire bowed coldly and distantly. He never offered his hand to the fallen man. No more did Juliet. Juliet did not even look at him. Poor Luke! His lip trembled; he could scarce endure to utter the words; but when he had said a few of them his courage rose. In his simple integrity and truth he looked quite heroic. "I have come," he said, "just to tell you, sir, that I do not venture on Miss Masterman's acceptance of me now. I am no fine speaker, and I cannot put it in elegant language; but I love her too truly and earnestly to consent that she should share my broken fortunes, and the ruin which has overtaken me." "Do you hear, Juliet? He releases you with his own lips;" and the old man turned to her with an air of triumph-" with his own lips!" Luke did not pay the least attention to this speech. He was secretly hoping that Juliet would speak to him. But she stood with downcast eyes, and silent. It was rather cruel, he thought, to let him go without one word—one look-so completely to forsake him! And at the first signal. His own heart seemed rent in twain. Surely her love could not be so deep and abiding as his was. But she would not let him say another word. “Luke—dear Luke," continued she, going towards him, my love is not, as you think, an idle bauble, to be given to-day and withdrawn to-morrow. When you won it, dear, it was yours, once and for all. True, the sun was shining then, and now has come the storm! Never mind, whate'er betides, we will brave it, dear, together-together!" "Juliet, what can you be dreaming of? You are mad, you foolish girl!" cried the old man, rising as if to part them. Plain, homely, phlegmatic Luke! He had caught her to his heart, and let him part them who dared. CHAPTER LXIV. SIR FREDERIC AT A DISADVANTAGE. "Ir you please, my orders was not to admit nobody," said Peggy, stolidly, and holding the door in her hand, while she confronted Sir Frederic Morton. "Oh, but if you take in my card, I think-I feel sure that Mr.-that Miss Ormond will see me,” said the baronet, hurriedly, and attempting to press forward. Peggy stood a moment. Then she yielded the point, and allowed him to pass. Arrived in the passage, he stopped. Where shall I find Miss Ormond?" asked he of Peggy, who was closing the door and fastening it, as though the house were in a state of siege. Peggy's reply was to open a door on the right. Then, pointing expressively to Sir Frederic, she vanished into the kitchen, as if she had no desire to be farther seen in the matter. Sir Frederic had, for once, made up his mind what to do. He went straight into the room without his The squire, meantime, was possessed with but usual irresolution. It was quite clear what had one idea. He wished Luke well out of the house been the drift of Mr. Sibley's policy. He had beer, and gone. There was no positive assurance of safety at that gentleman's instigation, to a remote part of so long as he remained on the premises. his estate, where the agent assured him that some After a pause, just for the sake of decent polite matters of business urgently demanded his attention. ness, he hinted as much. This was a ruse, he felt convinced, to get him out of the way. IN DUTY BOUND. During his absence information had reached him as to what Sibley was doing. All the time he had been harassed by doubts and suspicions. All the time he had been secretly desiring to get rid of Sibley. He had only just come from the station. He had not been home, or seen or heard anything of Sibley. He had come straight to Kate Ormond. She had occupied his mind far more than the business on which Mr. Sibley had sent him. There she is. She looks very downcast and sorrowful. The subdued expression enhances her beauty, he thinks, sevenfold. Unfortunately, it does not last. sees him it vanishes clean away. The moment she She looks upon him as a traitor. She feels the utmost contempt for a man who does not know his own mind. He saw the change. Considering all things, she was hardly likely to regard him with favour. Her favour had to be won. "I am afraid, Miss Ormond," he began, feeling at a great disadvantage, and that her piercing eye was searching out his weak points, "I am afraid you are offended with me-that you think “What I think is of very little consequence," she replied, with a slight toss of her pretty head; "the matter is more serious as it lies between yourself and your conscience." It would never do to go on in this way. It was leading miles away from the point he intended to aim at. "I have travelled all night in my eagerness to return to the spot. I am distressed beyond measure at the steps Mr. Sibley has dared to adopt." That answered better. He saw at once that her severity was a trifle moderated. As regarded any reflection cast on Mr. Sibley, there was a point in common. She forbore to put in any of her cutting speeches. Indeed, she allowed him to go on. He rallied his courage then. Having gained a vantage ground, wonderful to relate, he kept it! With far more coherence than he had as yet displayed, he told her the position he was in; that he was as much convinced as ever that the debt was paid, and Sibley's motives were now clear to him. He should never forgive his behavionr in this unhappy affair. And what, he concluded, with an earnestness that was quite touching, would Miss Ormond advise him to do? She smiled, half in pity and half in scorn. 373 "Thank you," interrupted Kate, icily; "if we are driven to an arrangement of that kind, it would be safer to deal with a person on whose word we can rely.” "You are very severe, Miss Ormond. Shall I never induce you to be friends ?" "Excuse me if I fail to see the necessity," she replied, still cold as ice. After that, what could he do but depart? It all came of his hateful indecision. Indecision might lead a man to do as much harm as crime. He went sorrowfully home. He could not remedy the mischief, let him try as he might. He took A note lay upon the table of his room. it up and opened it mechanically. He was thinking all the time of Kate Ormond. A paper dropped from the envelope. As he read it, his face turned crimson with the suddenness of the surprise. It was the very thing he would have almost given his life to find-the loss of which had occasioned all this confusion. From whence it came he knew not.. It might have dropped from the clouds. But here, in black and white, was the missing receipt-the acknowledgment, duly attested and signed, that the debt was paid. He stood a moment like a man in a dream. Then he snatched up his hat and hurried down the stairs. He was on his way back to the Meadow Farm. CHAPTER LXV. RUTH'S EXTREMITY. WHEN step after step has been taken from the right path, it is difficult to find the way back. Ruth found it so. Her course had led her into a tangled maze, from which there seemed, at present, no chance of extrication. This was a conclusion which she had never anticipated. In her heart she had relied upon her husband's reception of her. Where else was her home? where was she to go?» She knew how faulty she had been. Repentance was setting in, now it was too late. She bethought herself of his gentleness, his forbearance, his tenderness, displayed to the very last. She recollected how happy she might have been-how safe-how beloved! But she had not been willing. In her reckless folly she had cast away the priceless jewel of domestic felicity, and it was gone. The greedy waves seemed to have swallowed it up! |