"What ideas?" said Leo, in a strangled voice. She had a choking sensation in her throat.
"Eh? Well——" he considered; "they weren't exactly what you would have expected from a fellow who's knocked about as Foster has. Sort of romantic, you know."
As she made no reply, he continued: "I expect he had to let them out to some one, and perhaps Maud—what do you think? Do you see Maud playing the pious and charitable?—but I daresay she will, you know. Woa there! I have it, I knew there was something," his tone quickened, "he called her, that's to say he didn't callher, but of course he meant her, he said he hoped his wife would be an 'Angel in the House,' or something of that kind. He said a lot more, but I can't remember it."
"You are remembering very well. Go on."
"So then I thought of you."
"Of me? Oh, no."
"But I did, Leo. I can't help it. Anyhow I did." After a minute he continued briskly. "Whatever made him think of Maud? She must have been jolly different to him from what she is to us. You know what I mean, Leo. If he thinks he is going to marry a saint——"
"Oh, Val, don't. You mustn't. You haven't said anything about this to other people?" said Leo, in great agitation, "you haven't, have you?"
"Rather not. Give you my word. I have been bursting with it ever since—and if my gran had known she'd have got it out of me sure as fate—but she doesn't care twopence about Foster, and is only glad it isn't you."
"Do leave me out of the question. I—I—why should you think of me at all?"
"Gran keeps me up to it. She goes on praising you. You see I never told her aboutthat, Leo, and she still thinks—you know what," and he nodded significantly. "This marriage has set her going again."
After a pause it was: "You aren't making much of a dinner, Leo. You say 'no' to everything. What's put you off your feed?"
"Too much afternoon-tea probably. No, it's not that," said Leo, correcting the fib. "I'm not hungry, that's all."
"This venison is awfully good. Where did it come from? You generally do have venison about this time, I know. I have eaten it here before in October."
"Have you?"
"Where does it come from?"—reiterated he.
"From an old cousin, Anthony Boldero. We have no one else who sends us venison."
"Respects to him. His venison is A1. Leo?"
"Well?" said Leo, in a hard, dry tone. She recognised what was coming.
"It isn't me, it isn't anything I've been saying that bothers you?"
But at the same moment Leo's neighbour on her other hand spoke to her.
She was partly glad and partly sorry for this—glad because it relieved her from embarrassment, but sorry because it might be difficult, and indeed it proved impossible, to lead the erratic Val back to the same point thereafter.
He had delivered himself of all he had to say on the matter, and he had a talkative damsel on the other side who having been already somewhat affronted by his neglect, was resolved to endure it no longer. The two were soon in full tide of conversation; and though Leo had her turn once and again when Miss Merivale was attacked by her other neighbour, she could not all in a brief moment resume a dialogue of such import as the above. She thought Val was approaching it once, however.
"That's a fine dog of his—of Foster's."
"Lion? Yes, a delightful dog."
"It's awfully funny to see your father with him. When he can't make anything of Foster—he makes no end of a fuss with Foster—but it doesn't always exactly come off—then he panders to the dog. And, you know, they take it exactly in the same way! Lion gives him a bored look, and shakes himself. I think—he—he! his master would like to do the same."
Leo could not but smile; she had noticed the bored look, and once or twice it was even a disgusted one—on Paul's face. She would willingly have caught at the opening, but a moment's hesitation proved fatal. Miss Merivale struck in again and the opportunity was lost.
On the assembling of the ladies after dinner, Lady Butts fell to Leo's share. There was a greater lady present, Lady St. Emeraud, once before mentioned in these pages,—but this august personage, who had, as we know, kissed Leo on her marriage day, took no notice of Mrs. Stubbs on the present occasion. It was only at long intervals that she favoured Boldero Abbey with the light of her countenance, and being a connection of the Fosters, she had now come to see Maud and do the civil in view of the forthcoming alliance.
Accordingly her ladyship spread herself upon the principal sofa, with Sue on one side and Maud on the other,—while the lesser ladyship subsided upon Leo, and Sybil, in the distance, gathered round her the rest of the party, and chattered about wedding arrangements and bridesmaids' dresses.
Leo rather liked Lady Butts, who was uniformly amiable and safely unintelligent. She could be trusted not to say anything awkward. She never went below the surface of things; and she had not had Val Purcell's opportunities of seeing Paul Foster at close quarters. Her "Your sister'sfiancéis charming. And how radiant she looks! How pleased you must all be about it!"—with a few other appropriate platitudes, dismissed the subject.
Then it was: "You saw my nephew in Town, he told me. Sir Thomas and I only went up for a few weeks, and had left before you and your sister arrived. You had a pleasant time, I hope?"
Leo thanked her, and had had a very pleasant time. She had seen Mr. Butts about, but only to speak to on one occasion.
He had not called?
No, he had not called.
"So rushed he hardly knows what he is doing;" the fond aunt concealed her disappointment, for her hopes had been renewed by the London visit, and she knew nothing of a certain affair which was being conducted independently of her leadership, (and we may add was brought to a successful issue in consequence). "George is simply done to death in the season. We saw next to nothing of him ourselves."
"You will soonhearsomething of him or I'm mistaken, however," mentally commented Leo—and the whole conversation which ensued left but one impression on her mind: How could she ever have chosen the long path whereby to conduct Mr. George Butts across the park?
As for poor Tommy Andrews, her feelings about Tommy had undergone a strange revulsion of late. Self-disgust had given way to such a sense of pity and sorrow as made her long to do something, anything, to heal his wound; and instead of wincing when she saw his figure in the distance, she cried out in her heart, "Oh, I am so sorry, so sorry,"—and could have wept for very tenderness of—fellow-feeling.
In the course of the evening Leo found Paul at her elbow; he had returned from seeing some departing guests to their carriage, and paused near the door where she was standing.
"It is a fine fresh night," he remarked, cheerfully.
"Has the moon come out?" said she. "It was raining a little while ago."
"The rain has stopped, and the moonlight is glorious. I saw you flitting about in the dusk this afternoon," continued Paul, smiling. "I was coming your way, but I turned off. I didn't feel sure that my company would be welcome. One likes to be alone sometimes."
"Yes. I—I do. I do like it;" emphatically.
"That's flat." This time he laughed outright, seeming so much amused by her brusquerie, that she perceived how it must have struck him.
No matter, it was as well he should be thus struck. He would know for the future.
"Your grounds are so extensive that you have a pretty wide range for your rambles," resumed Paul, in the same easy, friendly accents; "you can walk all the way to Claymount without touching the road, young Purcell tells me; and as for the paths, they seem to be legion; I should get lost if I attempted to wander about by myself."
"Don't wander then; I advise you not. You really might get lost."
"And then if I fell in with you I should be obliged to throw myself on your mercy, which would be a terrible catastrophe."
"Oh, I should soon get rid of you," she made an effort to retort in the same light tone; "I should say—" she paused, "I should say, 'Maud is there,' and you would fly."
"Is Maud then a woodland nymph also?"
Was it her own fancy or was there an almost imperceptible pause before he spoke? And did the gay tone of the minute before undergo ever so slight a modification? Leo made answer with rather forced jocularity.
"It would be my ruse for throwing you off, don't you see? I should not be positive absolutely that Maud was there, or anywhere—but you could look. Youmightfind her—or you might not. But anyhow you would not find me if you came back."
"I am to give you a wide berth then, always?"
"Always."
"Is Paul going to stay hereallthe time?" abruptly demanded Leonore one day.
"That's what I want to know." Her father's voice made answer from the depths of an easy-chair; and it was a disconcerting answer, for he had been unobserved, indeed unseen. Had his head appeared above the back of the chair, Leo would have left the library as suddenly as she had entered it. She had thought Sue was alone.
"Of course if he wishes to stay, he can," proceeded the general, laying down his paper; "but it's a monstrous long time—that's to say, hum—ha—there are still three weeks till the twenty-fifth, and he has been here three weeks already."
"I am sure he is the best of guests," said Sue, gently.
"Oh, the best of guests, no doubt. Bothers nobody. Still——"
"Has anything been said?"—interposed Leo. She was drawing quick, impatient breaths, and had an air of giving battle, if not replied to as desired.
No, nothing had been said, but Sue believed——
"If you onlybelieve, that's no good. Can't you tell him to go? Can't you say it isn't the thing for him to stay on and on?"——
"My dear Leo!"
"Highty-tighty!—" simultaneously ejaculated the general, "here's fierceness!" But he looked amused. "If Paul were your sweetheart, young lady, you wouldn't be in such a hurry to have him sent to the right-about. However, there's something in it, Sue."
Sue looked distressed. "Remember what you said when he first came, father. How repeatedly you told him to make this his headquarters,—and there is another thing. The engagement took place so soon after he and Maud met, that they could not have known very much of each other. Hardly enough, perhaps. Don't you think it is as well——"
"What is there to know?" struck in Leo, vehemently. "If they are in love, as we presume they are——" she stopped short.
"Certainly," murmured Sue.
"Why, aye, that's all that's needed, no doubt," assented the general, with a bland expression. "Leo has hit the nail upon the head. Those two are in love with each other——"
"I said 'if,'" said Leo, loudly.
"'If—well 'if,' Madam Sceptic,—but I suppose you will allow they have taken the only means in their power of showing it? Well, what more do they want but to get married as fast as they can?"
"We could not have had the wedding sooner, father," said Sue.
"I suppose not; but another three weeks of Paul—though I'm not saying a word against Paul, mind you;—only, the truth is, I have to be so confoundedly careful before him, that it's—it's a strain."
He had indeed been milder and more amicable in every-day life of late, than any one could ever remember him before.
"I like the fellow;" he now mused aloud; "he treats me as I ought to be treated—not as that young ass Purcell does. Val licks my boots and hates me: but Paul has a nice, cheerful, respectful way——"
"Oh, he has all the virtues, no doubt,"—but Leo's mocking interpolation was overborne by her father's steady tones—"We talk, and he doesn't browbeat me. You may look at each other, but I know how a gentleman should behave among gentlemen. When people are polite to me, I am polite to them. And as I know that Paul has his foibles, religious foibles, I am on my guard; while as for him, he never thrusts them on my notice. There was that day that I saw him coming across the park before breakfast, and guessed where he had been—at the early service, of course,—well, all I said when we met in the hall was, 'You must have had a nice walk?' There's tact for you. From that day to this, neither of us has ever remarked upon it."
"It was such a sneaking, shocking thing to do," said Leo, ironically.
"Eh? What? 'Pon my soul, child, that was more like Maud than you. Sneaking? Shocking? It was the sort of thing a gentleman doesquietly, that's all; and it would have been in the worst possible taste to have taken any notice of what was not meant to be known."
He resumed his paper, and his daughters left the room together.
"I am sorry, Leo, that you don't like Paul," said Sue, as the door closed. She had felt for some time that she must say it, and if possible fathom to what was due a sense of tension in the air. "It is strange," continued she, "for to me and to the rest of us he appears so very lovable. Have you—what is it you find—you feel—you dislike in him, dear?"
"I find—I feel—I dislike in him—nothing. He is nothing to me. Why should my opinion be of any consequence about him?"
"You speak in such a hard voice, Leo. And you look so hard and unsympathetic whenever Paul is mentioned. Can't you tell me—you might surely tellme——?"
"I wishyouwould tellmewhen he departs? One gets tired of people in the state Paul is in, that's all."
"Are you a little—envious, dear Leo? Such happiness——"
"Yes, that's it. Such happiness—Maud is welcome to it," cried Leo, with a laugh. "Very welcome, most welcome; but it's all the parade, the flutter—however, it will soon be over, thank Heaven!"—she subjoined under her breath.
No more was to be got out of her, and Sue, baffled and repelled, went her way.
She was conscious, however, of a sense of relief when the very same afternoon Paul's departure for a season was announced. He had arranged for this without consulting any one; but Maud was satisfied that business demanded his presence in London, and that there were also a few old friends to whom as a bachelor he wished to bid farewell.
It did not appear very clearly where these friends lived, and indeed an exactingfiancéemight have found the brief announcement vague and unsatisfactory, but Maud's feelings were thus conveyed to her own people in private: "Paul has so much sense of what is proper and correct, that it really amounts to an intuition. I daresay he has an idea that when there is so much for me to attend to, it is better that I should be free to give myself up to it. Certainly it is a little distracting to have to remember he is waiting for a walk or ride, when one's head is in a whirl with other things."
Once she had asked Leo to take the walk instead of her—she did not do it again. Leo, with blazing eyes, declined point-blank.
"Take your man off your hands? Not I. If you're tired of him——"
"Good gracious, child, what do you mean? What things you do say? Iamtired, as it happens—but not of Paul. I have been standing for hours trying on dresses, and I am not such a walker as you at any time. You are forever going out. One would have thought you would be glad of a companion."
"I might be glad of a companion—but not of Paul," retorted Leo, mimicking. "He is your Paul, not mine, and I—and we——" her lips trembled and framed no more.
"You might oblige me, I think,"—but Sue touched the speaker's arm, and Leo vanished.
"What is it?" demanded Maud, irritably. "That child is quite spoilt of late. It's since her London visit, I think. She never was like that before."
"Sometimes I think, I fancy she is not quite well." Sue gathered up some papers on the table, and proceeded. "You know what Dr. Craig said? That she was in a morbid state, artificially excited or depressed, her mind preying upon itself. He said she must be taken where her natural impulses would have freer vent——"
"Well, well; we all know what he said; you told us at the time."
"I thought she was cured, but it seems not," said Sue, in a low voice. "And your engagement has somehow——"
"If it'sthat, of course—but do you think it really is that?" said Maud, not without a touch of complacency. "If it is that, of course I am sorry. But at first she seemed as pleased as anybody. It was only after she saw Paul—and one would have thought that Paul—I can't understand why any one should dislike Paul."
Sue was silent.
"Paul has not offended her, has he? Has she ever said so?"
"Never. Oh, never. One can't fancy Paul offending anybody," said Sue, with a smile.
"I told him all about Leo before he came here—but he made me repeat it after he had seen her, and I know—I am sure he felt for her. Well, I shan't ask Leo to walk with him again, that's certain;"—and only half appeased she went to make ready herself.
Leo, however, had not always escaped atête-à -têtewith the person she was thus bent on avoiding. She had seen him one evening in the lower garden, and hoping she was herself unseen, had escaped into the vineries, which, however, had afforded but a poor shelter, the branches being nearly bare of leaf. Paul had seen some one within as he passed the window, and entered also.
It was not till he had done so, and shut the door after him, that he discovered whose solitude it was he had invaded, and then it was too late to retreat. He could only offer his assistance in what she was doing—gathering the crimson vine leaves which fluttered here and there—and with his stick hook down those out of reach. Then all of a sudden a heavy autumn shower rattled upon the glass roof overhead, and there was nothing for it, for the two thus caught and trapped, but to wait till it was over.
They sat down on the low staging, and at first they hardly spoke.
But presently Leo grew frightened; the long, intimate silences startled her. Suppose Paul—? No, of course not that,—but he might think her odd and rude, and even seek some sort of explanation? She started talking hurriedly, and it was nearly an hour before the sky cleared.
Thereafter Leo knew what she had to expect should she and Paul be thrown together. She had gradually felt her defences giving way, her voice had grown low and sweet, and much that was hidden in the depths of her inner being, had welled up and overflowed into his listening ear. All along she had known this would happen once the barriers were down between her and Paul Foster; even when she sought to belittle him to herself at the outset, she had a terrible underlying consciousness of it,—and looking back upon the hour, feeling over again the fragrant warmth of the atmosphere, hearing the splashing of the rain, and smelling the bitter scent of the vines, she laid her head upon her arms and cried as if her heart would break.
But we know how Maud's request was met, and how one person at Boldero Abbey would fain with her own voice have bidden Maud's lover begone from it for ever.
Other voices, real voices, however, with one accord bewailed his departure when it came.
Even the general, secretly relieved, was punctiliously regretful on the surface.
"We shall soon see our gentleman back again," he observed in his best manner, "and I hope we shall often have nice long visits from you both in time to come, my dear;" addressing his bereaved daughter in accents of gracious consolation. "For myself I can never see Paul too often. But, hum—ha, no doubt at present he has done the right thing in attending to business before pleasure. Has he got any more houses in view?"
This was a subject on which he would always dilate, and it was discussed at all points as the meal proceeded. The general was unusually cheerful, as all remembered afterwards, and it was not till dessert was on the table that his spirits suddenly flagged. No, he did not want any wine; he was pettish when it was remarked that his glass was empty. Were they going to sit on forever? Well, then, why did no one rise? He would lead the way himself.
"I don't care to stay behind when I have no one to talk to," he pushed back his chair, but not far enough. "Give me an arm, one of you. Steady there—you needn't haul me along. Stop, I tell you." It was Leo's arm he held—she was the nearest to him—and he leaned upon it heavily.
He also breathed heavily. When she tried to draw him forward he tottered. His daughters looked at one another.
"Let me get you something, father?" said Sue, moving towards the sideboard;—"a little brandy?"—and with a tremulous hand she poured it out, and held it to his lips.
At the same time she gently withdrew Leo's arm, substituting her own, and Leo made no resistance. Their father looked them dazed—but the brandy momentarily revived him.
"I—suppose I go to bed, eh? I'm tired—that's what's the matter with me. Isn't that what's the matter with me, Sue? I'm tired—tired,"—his head sank upon his breast. "Tired—tired!" he muttered.
"Do not lose a moment, Maud;" said Sue, aside.
"Let me go;" said Leo, darting forward.
She was nimbler of foot than Maud—but Maud went also.
"Hey, what? Where are they all off to?" With an effort General Boldero straightened himself and made a pitiful effort to compose a face already distorted. "Where—are they going?"—the next minute he fell in a heap upon the floor.
And by the time Dr. Craig, imperatively summoned, dashed through the doorway which stood open awaiting him, all need of his presence was at an end.
"It could not have been averted, my dear Miss Sue;" in moments such as this the doctor invariably said "Miss Sue". "I have had my eye on your—your poor father for a while back. I kind of opined he was breaking. But it must have been a terrible shock for you all;"—and he shook a sympathetic head to and fro.
"Oh, Dr. Craig!"
"Aye, aye!" He patted her shoulder. "Aye, aye!"
"We were so unprepared."
"Prepared or unprepared, my dear lady, it's all the same when it comes. And it was a peaceful end—not a long, tormenting illness. Now then, who have you got to come and look after you all?"
The practical accents smote almost brutally upon her ear, and she lifted her tear-stained face to his in helpless appeal.
"You must have someone, some man, to look after things. You can't wrestle with them alone. There's that cousin of yours, the—" it was on the tip of his tongue to say, "tha heir"; for he was acquainted with all the Boldero family circumstances—but he caught himself up in time. He recalled that he had never seen the heir at the Abbey.
"Not for worlds, if you mean our cousin Anthony," said Sue, with a decision that confirmed his prudence. "He has never—we have never been on any but the most formal terms with him." (An exchange of venison and pheasants once a year had indeed been their limit, and the doctor guessed as much.)
"But he will have to come, my dear lady; and for the sake of appearances——"
"Not yet. Oh, not yet."
("Aye, it will be a bitter pill to you, poor thing, and to all of you, to have to bundle out neck and crop," inwardly cogitated the doctor)—and as he hesitated what further counsel to offer, she made her own suggestion.
"Paul would come to us, I know. He only left this morning. Oh, how little we thought when he left—but Maud knows where he is."
"Let him be sent for, then. The telegraph-office will be shut, but I daresay I could get them to open it if I went myself. Is Major Foster in London? If he is in the country, we shall have to wait till morning, I doubt."
Maud however testified that Paul was in London, and the telegram was sent.
And next day ensued a scene familiar, alas! to many. Scared looks, noiseless footsteps, muffled whispers—strangeness, dreariness, everywhere. And there were questions that could not be asked, and anxious thoughts that must not appear,—and with the future knocking at the door, the present must be all-in-all.
The present, however, with its multifarious demands, brought the relief of occupation to every member of the family except Leonore.
She was indeed willing, more than willing to do her part; but the elder three had been so long habituated to thinking of her as a childish, inconsequent creature, not yet out of leading strings, that each severally rejected her overtures, and she could only wander aimlessly from room to room, and gaze from the windows—from one window in particular.
"You will catch cold, Leo, if you stand in that draught," said Maud, passing along the corridor, where a chill current of air made itself felt. "Go into the library, child; a good fire is wasting itself upon nobody there."
But Leo did not go into the library. The library was snug and comfortable—the most comfortable room in the house,—but it commanded no view. The high trees of the shrubbery shut out the park beyond; and the short, straight road to the village, the road by which every one was coming and going now, was also entirely hidden.
When Maud reappeared, the watcher was still at her post,—but as she was in the act of putting down the open window—(perhaps she had heard an approaching step?)—remonstrance was not renewed. Instead, Maud came and looked herself.
"It is very strange of Paul;" she mused aloud.
No word from Paul had yet come, and now we can guess why Leo stood where she did.
"He mayn't have got the telegram;" she adventured.
"It would have been returned if he had not. Besides, Dr. Craig said it would be delivered last night, and Paul was not likely to be out at night."
Still the hours passed, and no answer came.
Nor did any come the next day, and the next.
"You are sure about the address, I suppose?" queried Sue, at last. She had not liked to make the suggestion before, since Maud, correct to a degree, was apt to resent any suspicion of carelessness or inaccuracy,—but the outlook was growing serious. A fresh telegram had been despatched, and Paul had also been written to,—it was inexplicable that he should remain silent, unless a mistake had been made somewhere.
"I am quite sure;" replied Maud briefly, and no more was said.
It was the evening of the third day, and darkness was falling outside. Leo, who had been waiting for this, had stolen outside, permitted, even urged thereto, by Sue, touched and consoled by what she took for a reflex of her own grief upon her young sister's face—and she had got some way from the house, when, in the deepening shadows beyond, she saw Paul coming.
Her first impulse was as usual to fly, but a second brought her swiftly to his side. She must see, must hear, must know at once—a maddening curiosity prevailed over every other feeling.
And it was immediately, if superficially met. He was eager to explain—while looking back on it she could not see that he had explained anything. He had received no communication, he had heard no tidings till the same day at noon, and had started by the first train, which he had barely had time to catch.
So far all was clear, but the how or the why was left untouched,—and he was hurriedly askingherto speak, begging for information, ejaculating expressions of sympathy, and reiterating regrets all the way back to the house, as if he found it impossible to take in all the sad details, for she was asked the same questions over and over again.
It was not till Leo was alone that she had a moment wherein to ask herself—Was she glad—was she sorry—was she relieved or bitterly disappointed that there was no trace of that mystery secretly conjured up during the past dreadful days? She had pondered, and fancied—oh, how cruel she had been, forever dwelling on the possibility that she might never need to see Paul Foster again;—yet now the joy of it—the pain of it—the bliss of it—the misery of it,—every throb of her veins was at once ecstasy and torture.
Paul was here—to be avoided; he must be met—and shunned; his voice would soothe—and stab; his touch would heal—and burn.
How had she ever borne the blank without him? The dreary vacuum which nothing could fill? The hopelessness, the emptiness of it all?
He was here, but looking ill—thinner than before—with a drawn, haggard countenance, and restless eyes. She could not but say to herself that even a kind heart, suffering for the sufferings of others, hardly accounted for such manifestations of grief. It was not to be supposed that General Boldero had during a few weeks' acquaintance so endeared himself to his future son-in-law that his death, however sudden and unexpected, was more than a shock. Leonore was tolerably sure that if her father had not been also Maud's father, he would not even have been acceptable to Paul as a friend. He could not be; the two were dissimilar throughout,—even Valentine Purcell, less intelligent than other people, had discovered as much.
Yet in four days—for it was but four days since the departing traveller had been gaily ushered forth from the doorstep on which he now stood, he had changed so visibly that—Where had he been during those four days? she found herself asking of herself anew.
The funeral was over, and it was now decent to talk about the marriage. When and where could the marriage take place?
Boldero Abbey, with all the landed estate, was virtually in other hands already, and it did not need the opening of the will to announce to the bereaved family that with the loss of a father there followed that of a home.
All their lives they had known that this must be so, but the subject was so grievous that it was hardly ever alluded to, and in a manner was lost sight of.
For his years General Boldero was a young man; he was hale, hearty, and selfish. He took good care of his health, and prognosticated for himself a green old age—anyhowhistenure of the good things of life was secure; and though unable to alter the law of entail, which permitted no female heirs in the Boldero line of descent, he foresaw in his mind's eye all his daughters married and settled, with the exception of Sue, who had her mother's fortune, and was of course to stick to him to the last.
Consequently the provision he had made for the rest was slight, and there was no doubt that the sooner they now quitted the stately mansion and broke up its large establishment, the better.
But the wedding, Maud's wedding, that was to have been so gay and splendid, what was to be done about that? The invitations were already out, and everything in such readiness that even Sue inwardly sighed. If only it could have been all happily over!
It was terrible to her that an event so momentous should take place anywhere but in the halls of her forefathers—or to speak more strictly, in the village church where Eustace Custance officiated. To him had been confided the great satisfaction afforded by the match; and when consenting to tie the knot, he had spoken warmly of Paul Foster. Paul had often sought him out, and had—but he must not say more. The general, overhearing, had warranted Paul "mulcted ".
To other sources of distress, therefore, it was added in the breast of poor Sue that Maud must seek her nuptial benediction elsewhere,—since Mr. Anthony Boldero, through his lawyer, had intimated that he would be glad to have matters arranged as soon as might be.
To each sister privately Sue had addressed herself on the point of remaining in the neighbourhood, and each had protested against the idea. No one of them could endure it.
But they had still a month's grace, and if Maud would consent to be married very, very privately, with absolutely no one present but their five selves—"Ridiculous! what are you thinking of?" cried Maud, angrily.
Her sluggish nature was roused to positive wrath by such an insulting proposition, but reading reproach in the colour which mounted to her sister's cheek, she made haste to subjoin:—
"Don't you see how very undignified it would appear to be in such a frantic hurry to secure a husband? It would almost seem as if I were afraid of losing Paul! Of course I shall wait till things can be done properly. I would not show any disrespect—I wonder that you should suggest it, Sue."
But the speaker was not perhaps as truthful as she might have been. In communing with herself, she had decided that the next best thing to being married in state from Boldero Abbey, would be a wedding in a fashionable London church. She had been a bridesmaid once at such, and to it her thoughts now reverted favourably. There need be but a short delay, and she was willing to wait. To wait would be infinitely preferable to a hole-and-corner business, with no prestige, no spectators, no one even to see her bridal array and Paul's necklace. Sue had even hinted at her not wearing the dress: "You could just go down in your travelling things, and no one need know anything about it till it was over".
"I should not degrade myself by doing anything of the kind;" said Maud, throwing up her head.
No, she would not consult Paul, Paul would of course let her decide for him,—and she did beg that no one would interfere with what after all washeraffair.
Presently it was, "Paul will stay on here with us at present. He has no real claims upon him elsewhere, for as we are not to be married just yet, he can postpone making his arrangements. Perhaps we shall now be able to get a house first."
To this end she ordered down agents' lists, and illustrated magazines; also Leo came upon her in odd places posing meditatively before various articles of furniture with a paper and pencil in her hand. Leo guessed what she was doing.
She took no notice; but she wondered if any one could help noticing that, whereas Paul when he first appeared on the scene had been eager and animated over the home he hoped to form, and the life he meant to lead, he was listless and indifferent now. He assented to everything, initiated nothing. Sometimes he barely glanced at the attractive domain whose allurements were so cunningly set forth—sometimes he hung over the page so long that Leo could not help suspecting it was but a screen to hide his face.
He had lost altogether his pleasant habit of following each speaker with his eyes as the talk went round. The eyes would be glued to the floor, or fixed vacantly on some object. He would start when called to order for inattention, and thereafter be abjectly attentive.
But whatever Maud said was right, and her wishes were law. She could not make a suggestion which he was not ready to carry out; when she withdrew from it herself he as readily withdrew. To Leo, watching from the background, there was something unnatural, incomprehensible about it all—something which baffled her closest scrutiny—and yet at times made her feel as though the scrutiny itself were but foolishness, emanating from her own disordered imagination.
She would think so for a whole day, and school herself to believe that it was a happy day—and then something, some trifle, would occur which made her heart leap and her hands tremble, and she found herself talking for dear life in a meaningless jumble of words.
She would not, must not, dared not hope that Paul repented of his choice, unless it might be that repentance were mutual, in which case?
But after a night of fitful sleep and miserable awakenings, Leo would come down heavy-eyed and feverish, to find a prosaic, business-like dialogue being carried on by the very individuals who had figured so differently in the phantasms of the small hours, and her entrance would hardly be noticed by either, so engrossed were they by each other.
Once indeed she wondered whether Paul were not a trifle too ostentatiously engrossed? Whether it were the case that he really did not see her slip into the vacant chair, the only vacant chair at the table? His head was steadily turned the other way, but her sisters addressed her and still he perceived, or affected to perceive, no addition to the party. Was he, could he be afraid of her penetration? Did he suspect that it went further than was convenient?
Maud was unusually animated that morning. "It really fits in wonderfully, this plan of Aunt Charlotte's; and I must say I little expected her to be the one to come to the rescue."
"What is the plan?" inquired Leo aside of Sybil.
"Aunt Charlotte offers us her house for the winter." Sybil also looked excited and jubilant. "She is going abroad, and says she will leave us everything as it stands."
"But a house in Eaton Place, and it is one of the larger houses too," demurred Sue, "would it not be rather expensive——?"
"Not in the least, seeing that we are to have Aunt Charlotte's servants. It is reallymostkind," averred Maud, with the warmest approval; "I should not think of refusing, not for a moment. And St. Peter's close by—" with a meaning smile to Paul—"what could be better?"
"Hi, Lion, Lion?" said he, looking under the table.
"You will close with the offer at once, Sue?" proceeded Maud, too much elated and gratified to observe the lack of response; "don't lose a post, in case the good lady changes her mind. How soon can we go, do you think?"
But even the gentle Sue kindled a little beneath a note which jarred on all, and she looked a mute reproach.
"Well? How soon?" impatiently reiterated her sister.
How soon? To leave for evermore the old familiar scenes, the peaceful glades—every spot hallowed by memories and associations? To take a last farewell of the only life she had ever known, to fling it aside like a worn-out garment? Was it possible that any one, even with a bright new existence opening before her, could be so eager to turn the page that all she could say or think of was "How soon?"
It wounded Sue to her heart's core to hear the peremptory tone and meet the unabashed gaze. She could not speak,—and the next minute she felt an arm steal round her waist, and a cheek was laid on hers. It was only Leo, but Sue never said "only Leo" from that moment. She took the little hand and fondled it; she used it to wipe her own tears away.
"Hi, Lion, Lion?" said Paul, looking under the table again.
"Is it settled? Is it decided?" Later on in the day Leo, finding Sybil by herself, returned to the mooted point.
"About London? Why, of course. When our sovereign lady gives the word of command, don't you know there is nothing for it but to obey? Sue wrote by the first post."
"And when are we to go? When?"
"You are as keen as Maud, I declare. Well,Iam rather sorry to leave the old place——"
"When? I only ask, when?"—cried Leo shrilly.
"Do you really not care at all, Leo? I thought at breakfast you and Sue——"
"What's the use of caring? Will caring alter things? If it would——" but Leo caught her breath, and her hands gripped each other; "I think you might answer a plain question without rambling on about other things;" she subjoined as steadily as she could. "Is the time of our departure fixed?"
"For this day week, if we can be ready in time. Sue says we can't, but Maud says we can. Ten to one on Maud."
"This day week!"
"After all, there's nothing more to be done here;" Sybil recovered herself, for in reality she was like Maud, bitten with the idea of change; "and it's doleful enough, Heaven knows. Day after day the same howling wind and rain, and nothing to talk about but Maud's houses. Maud doesn't care two straws what becomes of the rest of us, as long as she gets a fine place for herself. She won't even listen if a word's said about our affairs. Paul is too good for her, I think,"—abruptly.
Leo, who had begun to turn away, stopped short, startled.
"Oh, you don't care for him, I know," ran on Sybil at random; "but you are the only one of us who doesn't. I often think," she lowered her voice to caution, "I tell you what, Leo, if Paul had not fluked upon Maud as he did, and the other Fosters had not puffed her up and prodded him on, he never would have thought of her. She's not his style at all, with her grandiose notions, and fondness of big people, and all that. Just what Paul hates. Did you not see him wince when she made that remark about Lady St. Emeraud? Maud is awfully obtuse," continued Sybil, glad of a listener; "she never saw. But you know, Leo, even father used to laugh at her love of swagger—though she got it from him."
"You never said this before;" muttered Leo, surprised. She had no inclination to go away now.
"Because Maud and I—of course we have held by each other always, and I should have gone on holding, if she had. But I am nothing to her now;" said poor Sybil bitterly. She had a weak, shallow nature, but it was capable of affection—and Maud's selfish withdrawal of affection, her complete indifference to all that did not concern her own individual interests at a time when in the natural course of things the sisters would have been drawn together by an especially close tie, was felt as keenly as Sybil could feel anything.
"And you think Paul——?" hesitated Leo.
"It's Paul's own look out. He may make her mend her ways. She thinks a lot of him, of course."
"Does she—is she—is she in love with him, Syb?"
"In love with him? I suppose so—after a fashion. She's in love with being married, and having a country house of her own, and a husband to domineer over. And if he should come in for a title——"
"But that is notPaul;" said Leo, in a low voice. She had herself well in hand, but deep down there were strange emotions at work, stirred by the above. "Do you mean—I wish you would say what you really mean?—I—I sometimes wonder myself——," she stopped.
"Oh, you mustn't take all this too seriously, Leo. Don't look at me as if we were a couple of conspirators. It's no use being cross with Maud because she is what she is. She hasn't fine feelings—no one ever thought she had. But Paul has found that out by this time, I dare say; and when his chance comes he can inoculate her with his. At the worst, he has enough for both;"—and having thus summed up the situation and relieved her feelings at the same time, Sybil turned to other matters.
"Yet evenshesees," cried Leo, inwardly, "she sees something, though she does not know, does not guess what it is. And I who do, oh, how shall I bear it,—how shall I bear it? And this is only the beginning—they haven't yet actually begun the real thing,—they are only looking at it, and he——?" She heard Sue's voice calling her, and thrust aside the "he".
Sue wanted a parcel taken to the cottage of an under-gardener, who was ill; and thought that both Henry and his wife would appreciate the attention more if conveyed by one of themselves, than by a servant. Would Leo go?
"And ask if Dr. Craig has been, and what he says?" further directed Miss Boldero with a little sigh. She was thinking that perhaps this was the last she would ever have to do with either doctor or patient, and Sue had loved much the gentle routine of her daily life, with its easy benefactions and ministrations,—and now all her world, all the world of which she knew anything, lay in ruins around her.
"I'll go," said Leo, taking the parcel.
She was ready to go anywhere, and Henry's cottage was only a short way off, one of a cluster at the edge of the lower garden,—so that even if the rain which threatened did come on, she could find shelter—and on this occasion safe shelter. Paul had gone for a ride, and his rides were long; Maud explained that the exercise was good for him.
But though thus secure, there was another danger to which no thought had been given, and Leo, whose path at this time seemed beset with pitfalls, on emerging from one cottage room, found herself face to face with a visitor issuing from the other. Dr. Craig had not been able to come himself, but had sent his assistant.
The doctor had paused to rub his chin before doing so, but the summons which stayed his own steps was imperative, and it was a hundred chances to one against Tommy's meeting anybody. The Boldero ladies had been very little about of late, and one of them had already visited the sick man that day. He took the risk.
But he would not have taken it if he had guessed how great the risk was; nor perhaps would young Andrews have gone, had he fore-seen the effect upon himself of that beautiful, mournful, childish face, whose expression?—A cry escaped him. A mad interpretation of it possessed him. His promise? He threw his promise to the winds. No man could keep a promise when confronted with—even to himself he did not say with what,—but before Leonore could escape, or prevent it, the pent-up torrent was loosed.
At first she was petrified,—then flared up. What was the meaning of this? What was she to think? Was Mr. Andrews beside himself? Did he know what he was saying?
Still he poured forth, deaf and blind. Oh, how he had longed for this moment!—the thought of it, the hope of it, had kept him alive through all the wretched, wretched months of separation,—and she, how had she endured—?
"I can endure no more," cried Leonore, with almost a scream. "Be quiet—be quiet—they will hear you,—don't you know that they will hear you?"
"What if they do?" He was past that. "You are here. We are together. That is enough." He seized her hand, but she fought and struggled, and eventually wrenched herself free. "You—youdare?" she panted.
"Oh, I dare—now. I dare anything now."
"You dare to forget who you are? And who I am?"
"Yes, even that. It is nothing when we love each other"—and again he laid hold of her.
"Let me go—let me go."
"But——?"
"If you have not altogether lost your senses, Mr. Andrews, you will leave me this moment—this moment;" she stamped her foot,—"and never, never cross my path again."
"But, Leonore—?"
"Leonore? Oh, this is too insulting—" a burst of tears. "What have I done to be thus degraded?—" and she shook the hand torn from his grasp as though it had been poisoned.
"What have you done? You do not understand——"
"I understand enough—too much." With an effort she changed her tone to one of infinite disdain. "You are under some strange hallucination, Mr. Andrews, which alone can account for this extraordinary, intolerable behaviour. If my father had been alive—but I am still his daughter, and you, what areyou?"
The words in themselves might still have failed to arrest him, but the look, the gesture, the withering emphasis on the "you?"—he stood still, and after a moment, staggered a step across the pathway like a drunken man.
"If you confess it was all a delusion," resumed Leonore, in slightly modified accents, for she was now only eager to put an end to the scene, and a twinge of pity made itself felt, "if you allow that you have utterly misinterpreted a little ordinary civility—well, perhaps it was more than civility, call it kindness if you will—I will try to forget,—but you also must forget, and never breath a word of this again."
"But—but——" he faltered. Then staggered afresh, unrestrainedly, it might almost have been thought ostentatiously. It was not a pretty spectacle.
"For Heaven's sake, pull yourself together," cried Leonore, with a sense of repulsion. "Be ashamed of this. Own that you are ashamed of it. Own that I never gave you cause to think—that you have been dreaming——"
"Hush. I am awake now," said the young man, slowly. And he turned his burning eyes upon her till she shrank, but this time neither from fear nor loathing; it was a new sensation which made itself disagreeably felt. Was she indeed as innocent as she said? Was there not a faint horrible suspicion of bluster in her fury of contempt and repudiation? She was silent, struggling with herself.
"You have broken my heart, I think," said Tommy, in the same slow, dull tone. "You have done what I was told you would do. You have played with me, as others of your kind have played with others of mine. God forgive you for your cruelty, but I—I am awake now,——" and again he muttered to himself like a man in a dream.
"Mr. Andrews, can you say?—stop, I suppose you can. Wait a moment; let me speak. I was lonely, unhappy, absorbed in myself and the empty weariness of my life when—when I met you. I read in your face that you—well, say it was my fault, say it was," suddenly impetuous—"at most it was but a passing folly, and it was over almost before it had begun. If it is any satisfaction to you now, I will say that I am—sorry. I can do no more."
"No, you can do no more. It is much for a great lady to go so far. It is the usual thing, I suppose;—" and again his mentor's words, "She was sorry,sosorry," echoed in the speaker's ears—"and the—the episode is at an end. Again I say God forgive you, Mrs. Stubbs, for I never can."
He was gone, and she rushed homewards, stumbling over every pebble in her path.
"Is anything the matter with Leo?" said Maud, the next day. "She is in such an odd mood; and she has scarcely left her room since morning."
"She feels the going away, I think," replied Sybil, not ill-pleased to say it, for she was smarting beneath a fresh instance of her other sister's callousness. "We had a talk yesterday, and I saw she was taking it dreadfully to heart."
"Rather absurd of Leo. She was ready enough to go once; and she can't be as much attached to the place as we are, who have never been away from it;" and Maud looked aggrieved, as people do when others are accredited with finer feelings than they themselves can boast of. "Paul is low to-day, too, but I believe it is lumbago. I only hope it is, and not another attack of fever coming on."
"That would be very inconvenient, certainly," rejoined Sybil, gravely. It struck her that there was not much sympathy for the sufferer in either case. "What makes you think it is lumbago?"
"He has been sitting over the fire for hours, doing nothing. When I asked him to come and look at these plans, he said another time would do. And you know how he is always ready to look at plans, or do anything I wish."
"He didn't say he was unwell?"
"No, I only supposed so."
She passed on, and at the same moment Leonore appeared.
"There you are!" cried Sybil gaily. "Come along, and be sociable. You have been a most unsociable little creature all day. Now then, aren't you coming?"
But Leo was not coming. Obviously she was disconcerted at sight of her sister, and shook her head as though vexed at being accosted.
"Nonsense! Don't go hiding yourself again," resumed Sybil. "What's the use of moping? And it doesn't make it any pleasanter for the rest of us that Paul is in the dumps in one room, and you in another. We are none too cheerful without that."
"Where is Paul?"
"In the library. Over the fire. So Maud says, and declares he has lumbago. I don't believe it. He simply doesn't want to be bothered with her and her eternal 'plans'."
"You are sure he is there?"
"Go and look for yourself if you doubt Maud's word. Why? Do you want him?"
But Leo threw her a strange look, a look of such bitter, ironical meaning, that she appended hastily; "You are not such a little fool as to be worrying yourself over those two and their affairs? Maud won't thank you if you do. She is rather put out as it is, because I hinted that you took to heart our going more than she did. I didn'tsayso, you know—but I should, if she had gone on much longer. However, she went off to Paul."
"And Paul is safe, in there?"
"Paul is safe—in there. Let sleeping dogs lie. Well? Oh, Leo, you really are too bad,—" for Leo had turned at the words, and was remounting the staircase.
"One can't say a word to her that she doesn't vanish on the instant," muttered Sybil; "how I do dislike that way she has got into! And when Maud goes, of course I shall have to take up with Leo. Hullo! Sue?"
"I was looking for Leo," said Sue.
"Did you look in the only place you were likely to find her? She has hardly been out of her room all day."
"Has she not been out-of-doors at all? Poor child!"
"I tried to get her to come for a walk this morning, but she wouldn't."
"She seems——" said Sue, and stopped short.
"Yes, we all know what she seems, and is: in an uncommonly bad temper, for some reason or other. There is nothing for it but to let her alone."
"I am rather anxious about her somehow, Syb."
"And now we shall have you in the blues too! For sheer pity bear up, and don't let me be the only one—and I suppose I have feelings too. It really is disgusting, every one giving way but me."
"I think Imustgo and see what Leo is doing?"
"I think youmustdo nothing of the kind. You will make nothing of her. I've tried. She was here just now."
"And did you not notice anything? It is not only her face; but her voice, her manner——"
"I told her she looked woebegone, and that it was no good. She frets about things that are no business of hers, if you must know," owned Sybil, reluctantly. "She has taken it into her head that Maud—that she and Paul aren't suited to each other, and has let the idea run away with her. I suppose I was stupid myself, not to put a veto upon it flat,—but the truth is I do think they are an ill-assorted couple, and can't make out how they ever came to take to each other."
"I once thought it was something else on Leo's part," said Sue, in rather a low voice. "If it is only that, I think, I hope, we are all mistaken."
"We?" cried Sybil, struck by the word.
"Because I think as you do," said Sue, quietly.
The short light of a November day was beginning to fade when Leonore, after a minute's cautious listening and watching from above, stole downstairs equipped to go out, and safely reached the garden-door without encountering any one. She was in the act of unlocking it, when Paul appeared.
"You are going out?" said he, mechanically.
"No, I am not," said she—and passed out before his eyes.
For a few minutes she ran aimlessly hither and thither, crossing and recrossing her steps, while from time to time casting furtive glances at the windows of the house, as though to see if she were being watched or not—but satisfied apparently upon this point, she made a sudden dart for the woods beyond, and was almost immediately lost to view.
Yet here again she hesitated, for the paths were numerous.
There was the one she had first trodden on her return to the Abbey three years before. She recalled the beauty, the wild freshness of that twilight hour. It had so exhilarated her that while desirous of walking soberly as befitted the occasion, she had longed to run! Her first very real but transient sorrow had worn off, and there was no one to see her—yet something restrained her. It was not kind to Godfrey's memory; he had been so good to her, so uniformly affectionate and indulgent towards her, that she would not seem to slight him even in solitude. As for the dancing blood in her veins, she told herself it was purely physical. She was so well and strong that she could not help feeling just a little happy.
And though she had often traversed the same narrow little winding path since, she had never perhaps felt quite the same again.
On the other hand, there lay the short cut to Claymount—that was Val's way. She would not take Val's way, although of late Val had ceased to frequent it. He had no object in doing so, since Leonore was never to be met with now.
Once or twice he had adverted to this, but she had replied evasively. Val did not interest her, did not amuse her any longer. He grew tiresome since he had taken to making remarks upon her altered appearance, and putting direct, awkward questions.
Things might have been worse, of course; but on the whole she would even have preferred an open rupture and well-founded resentment, to this persistent determination to know how things were with her,—and others?
Val had no liking for Paul Foster now, though at first he had professed such. He had no reason to give, and an obstinate look would come over his face if pressed. Once he had murmured something of which Leo only caught the words, "jolly deceitful,"—and the next minute he denied having spoken them.
To herself Leo owned that she had not behaved well to poor Val, having made use of him for selfish ends; but the experiment had harmed neither, and no remorse need be wasted upon it.
With George Butts it was the same; he was fair game, having come in search of her supposititious fortune, without even the excuse of an honest, jog-trot fidelity such as Val's. She had been scolded on George's account, but had not scolded herself, and had archly and triumphantly pointed out the recusant to Sue in a sly corner of a London balcony.
But young Andrews? Ah,thatstung. The home truths forced from those quivering lips, the agony of those imploring eyes—she quailed before them. They pierced her already shame-embittered soul, they were her dying wounds. For she had made another suffer what she herself was suffering, and had done it wantonly. There was no excuse for her,—none. There should be no pity, no sorrow—if it were possible, no knowledge when—when all was over.
She crashed into the undergrowth.
But she could not go far; the mould was too soft, and the rotting leaves too thick and plentiful. She was forced to retrace her steps.
There was the dry track of a streamlet, along which a faint trickle oozed to the surface here and there. She tried it, but the sharp stones hurt her feet, and again she sprang into the path.
Then the sprawling arms of a bramble caught and ripped a bad tear in her skirt. Her new, black skirt—and just where a darn would show! How tiresome—how vexatious! And Bessie could not darn decently. She frowned and examined, condemning already Bessie's incapable hand, and slipshod work.
Till—remembrance came, and the torn edge flapped unheeded.
From below, where a frequented road came near at the point, there broke upon her ear sounds and voices,—children returning late from school, lingering and playing by the way—laughing and singing over their game. She crouched till they were past—then hurried forward.
At length she came to an opening in the woods; a spot whose view of the surrounding country often attracted her thither—and from habit she paused and gazed.
It was such an afternoon as she loved; a red sky, a misty landscape, the near trees still ablaze with autumn tints. In the distance a flying train threaded its way whistling; the white steam appearing and disappearing behind wooded heights and promontories.
How often had she stood thus; how familiar was the scene!—but she could not linger now.
There was something she was searching for which she did not find. She had only seen it once, and then by chance,—in the present confused whirl of her brain she could not remember landmarks, nor identify localities.
But it was there, somewhere,—and she must look, look till she found it.
A branch snapped behind, and she spun round, terrified. Who—what was that?
The woods were almost silent, birds had ceased to sing, and rabbits were in their holes. After a minute's breathless suspense, she crept on a pace or two, and listened again,—but there was not a rustle, not a sound. She fled onwards.
A pile of logs and a rough saw-pit,—yes, yes,—she knew the saw-pit, she had passed the saw-pit that other day, and Val and she had sat upon the logs. Val had kicked about the splinters at his feet, and formed them into heaps. And it was close, close by, that—oh, it was so close that she shivered and trembled, and clung to the edge of the pit as a support, and at last sank upon her knees.
But she was not praying—she was not even thinking;—there was nothing more to think about,—she rose and crept down the slope, to where lay a deep, black pool.
And out of the pool crawled a toad. Its head came first; the ugly, flat head that, but for its movement, might have been mistaken for a lump of slime,—then one long-jointed, sluggish leg, and then the other, followed by a sudden leap, and a leap, ah! the loathsome thing!—in her direction. Involuntarily she also leaped—backwards.
Not there—not just there; she shuddered as the reptile startled in its turn, turned and plunged again into the water, where, no doubt, were others of its kind, many and vile....
The stem of a bulrush shook, suggestive of hideous gambols at its roots....
The whole place looked so foul and evil that a wild desire to flee from it did actually, and as it were involuntarily, drag Leonore's nerveless feet a few yards from the edge—but there she halted, muttering to herself in broken, meaningless utterances. She thought she was goading herself back—back—back;—and she began to go back.
"Caught you up at last, Leo. What a walker you are! I followed you out, and guessed I should overtake you if I held on," continued the cheerful voice, as Paul tumbled down the bank, slipping and sliding, and steadying himself with his stick till he reached Leo's side. "A bit damp here though, isn't it?"
"Go away—go away, Paul." She tried to push him aside, he was between her and the pool.
"Sorry. I didn't mean to intrude; but, I say this is just the sort of thing to be very pleasant at the time, but——"
"Go—go!"
"But it will find out the weak spot afterwards, and then the aches and pains!"
"Ishall have no aches and pains, and you—you needn't stay. I don't want you, I won't have you;" cried Leo, wildly. "Why did you come? Why did you follow me? Who gave you leave to spy upon me?"
"I took my own leave," said Paul, and dropped his cheery note, fixing his eyes steadily on hers. "You will come away—from here—with me;"—and she felt his hand close upon her arm.
She looked at it, and at him stupidly. She made no outcry.
"Come," repeated Paul.
She shook her head.
"You are going to come. That was what brought me here. Do you understand me, Leo?"
"No—no." She made a faint, weak effort to release herself.
"You must obey me."
"I shall not."
"You must obey a Higher Power than mine. In God's name I command you to leave this baleful spot."
"Paul!" But she obeyed, cowering.
In silence they moved on, neither knowing which way they trod, then suddenly: "It was you who broke that branch I heard—you who tracked me all the way—I heard something—it wasyouI heard? How could you?—how could you?—?" cried Leo, sobbing aloud. "Oh, to think that it wasyou!"
"It was I, dear Leo, sent to save you in your hour of need. You are ill—you are not yourself—you know not what you are doing;—but there is One who watches over His children, and in the hour of danger and temptation——"
"But why did he sendyou? Paul, do you believe you were really sent by Him?" she was awed, but scarcely subdued—"becauseIdon't. I cannot think even God would be so cruel as to chooseyou——" she broke off panting.
"He chooses His own instruments, Leo. Do not let this distress you, dear little sister—I may call you 'sister,' mayn't I?—You can trust me, can you not? Lean on me," he drew her hand within his arm, "and tell me you forgive——"
"Forgive—forgive?" she sobbed afresh. "Is it I to forgive—I who have done it all? Paul, don't youknow? Don't yousee?"
"I only see a poor little lamb that has lost its fold."
"But the little lamb has been straying in other folds, and it was so dark there, Paul—so dark and cold,—oh, Paul, why did you stop me? Why—why did you save me? You know.You know;"—her sobs were heartrending.
He was silent.
"You were happy till you came here," said Leo, brokenly. "You loved Maud—at least you thought you did, and she, she still thinks she loves you. She——"
"Hush—no more. You must not say such things, Leo." He was calm no longer; the sweat broke out upon his brow.
"But it is the truth. Oh, it is—it is the truth."
"There are truths that must not be spoken. You must not, you shall not say what you would repent of all your life."
"Who is to speak if I do not? I am the only one——"
"Am I fallen so low that I would letyouproclaim the secrets of my coward heart? Ifmylips are sealed, so shallyoursbe," he cried, in great agitation. "If I have made a terrible mistake, it is my own mistake, and I shall abide by it."
"Paul—Paul,—" she clung more closely to him. "Say you forgive me, Paul."
"There is nothing to forgive. Take care. You nearly fell, Leo. Try to look where you are going in this dim light." The accents of forced composure fell like cold lead upon her heart. She had touched him for a moment, and a nerve had vibrated to her touch—but he was slipping from her again. He continued:—
"Since your penetration has discovered——"
"Say since I found out the truth, Paul."
"That, if you will." He bent his head. "I cannot, I dare not deny it. Itisthe truth, God help me—God help us both."
"You and me?" she whispered, faintly.
"Maud and me. I have done her a great wrong, but it shall be the aim of my life to repair it. She shall find me a true and faithful husband——"
"You won't—you can't marry her?"
"What?" said Paul, stopping short.
"You do not love her."
"I loved her once—I shall learn to love her again."
"You will be wretched, miserable—and so will she, now that you know the truth. I would have spared you. I meant to give my life to spare you—oh, Paul, you know I did," she wept passionately—"but now, now when you yourself would not let me do it——"