Looking at that quiet room illuminated by the mellow light of the lamp, no one could have imagined the scene of terror and despair which had lately taken place, yet when Reginald entered, his face wore a somewhat puzzled expression.
"How do you do, Beaumont?" he said as the artist arose with a frank smile and took his hand. "I thought I heard a scream."
"Did you?" replied Beaumont, assisting his visitor to remove his great coat. "Then I'm afraid I must have been asleep, as I heard nothing, not even your knock; the opening of the door aroused me."
"I didn't knock at all," said Reginald, sitting down by the fire and drawing his chair closer to the burning coals. "I should have done so, but I forgot and walked straight in--you don't mind, do you?"
"Not at all, my boy, you are perfectly welcome," answered the artist heartily. "Will you smoke?"
"Thank you, I've got my pipe."
He lighted his pipe and lay back in the chair watching the fire, while Beaumont, bending forward with his face in the shadow puffed at his cigarette, watching Reginald, and crouching on the dark staircase with her eye to the keyhole, a silent woman watched both. It was a curious situation and not without a touch of grim comedy, though, as a matter of fact, the play which the trio were about to act had more in it of the tragic than the comic element.
Reginald, looking sad and weary, watched the fire for some moments, till Beaumont, feeling the silence oppressive, broke it with a laugh.
"How fearfully dull you are, Blake," he said gaily, "is anything wrong?"
Blake withdrew his sad eyes from the fire and looked at the speaker with a singular smile.
"Not what many people would call wrong," he said at length. "I have a large income, I am young, and I marry the girl I love next week."
"Well, as you can't call any of those blessings wrong, my friend, you ought to be perfectly happy."
"No doubt--but perfect happiness is given to no mortal."
"You are very young to moralize," said Beaumont with a faint sneer.
"Yes, it appears absurd, doesn't it, but I can't help it; ever since I discovered the real story of my birth a shadow seems to have fallen on my life."
"And why--who cares for the bar sinister now-a-days?"
"Not many people I suppose, but I do--I daresay I have been brought up in an old-fashioned manner, but I feel the loss of my good name keenly--wealth can gild shame, not hide it."
"Rubbish! you are morbidly sensitive on the subject."
"No doubt I am--as I said before it's the fault of my bringing up--but come," he continued in a livelier tone, "I did not call to inflict my dismal mood upon you, let us talk of other things."
"Such as your marriage?"
"Certainly--marriage is a pleasant subject," said the young man with a quiet smile. "As I told you, I marry Miss Challoner next week and then we go abroad for a year or two."
"And what about your property in the meantime?" asked Beaumont.
"Oh, I'll leave it to my solicitors to attend to."
"Why not appoint me your agent?"
Blake coloured a little at this direct request and smiled in an embarrassed manner.
"Well, I hardly see how I can do that," he said frankly, "I've only known you about three months, and besides, I have perfect confidence in my solicitors to manage the property, so, with all due respect to you, Beaumont, I must decline to appoint you my agent."
He spoke with some haughtiness, as he was irritated at the cool way in which Beaumont spoke, but that gentleman seemed in nowise offended and smiled blandly as he answered:
"If then, you will not help me in that way, will you give me some money--say five hundred pounds?"
"Certainly not!" retorted Blake hotly, pushing back his chair, "why should I do such a thing? As I said before, I have only known you three months--you were kind enough to introduce me to some friends of yours in Town, beyond this our friendship does not extend--I have yet to learn that gentlemen go about requesting sums of money from comparative strangers."
"You have yet to learn a good many things," said Beaumont coolly, irritated by the independent tone of the young man, "and one is that you must give me the money I ask."
Blake jumped to his feet in amazement at the peremptory tone of the artist and looked at him indignantly.
"Must!" he repeated angrily, "I don't understand the word--what right have you to speak to me in such a manner?--if you think you've got a fool to deal with you are very much mistaken--I decline to lend or give you a sixpence, and furthermore I also decline your acquaintance from this moment."
He snatched up his overcoat and put it on, but Beaumont, still cool and unruffled, sat smiling in his chair.
"Wait a moment," he said slowly, "you had better understand the situation before you leave this room."
Reginald Blake, who had turned his back on the artist, swung round with a dangerous expression in his dark eyes.
"I understand the situation perfectly, sir; you thought I was a young fool, who, having come into money, was simple enough to play the part of pigeon to your hawk."
Beaumont arose slowly from his chair at this insulting speech, and frowned ominously, while the woman hidden behind the door watched the pair in a cat-like manner, ready to intervene if she saw cause.
"You had better take care, my boy," said Beaumont deliberately. "I am your friend now, beware lest you make me your enemy."
"Do you think I care two straws for either your friendship or enmity?" replied Blake with supreme contempt, looking the artist up and down. "If so, you are mistaken--what can you do to harm me I should like to know?"
"Then you shall know--I can dispossess you of your wealth and leave you a pauper."
"Hardly--seeing I now know your true character and touch neither dice-box nor cards."
"It will require neither dice-box nor cards," replied Beaumont, wincing at this home thrust, "I can dispense with those aids--and I can reduce you to your former position of a pauper and stop your marriage."
"Indeed! Then do so."
Beaumont was stung to sudden fury by the young man's coolness, and lost his temper.
"You defy me!" he hissed, advancing towards Blake. "You dare to defy me, you pauper--you outcast--you bastard!"
"Liar!"
In another moment Reginald had his hand upon Beaumont's throat, his face convulsed with rage, when suddenly Patience sprang forth from her hiding-place.
"Stop! He is your father."
Blake's grip relaxed, and his arm fell by his side while Beaumont, staggering back, fell into the arm-chair and began mechanically to arrange his disordered necktie.
"My father!"
It was Reginald who spoke in a dull, slow voice, with his face ghastly pale and his eyes fixed upon the cowering form of the woman before him.
"My father! Is this true?"
Patience tried to speak, but her tongue could not form the words, so Beaumont, with a devilish light in his eyes, answered for her.
"Quite true. Your mother has told you."
"My mother! You?"
The young man looked from one to the other in a dazed manner, then, with a gasping cry, staggered forward and seized Patience by the arm.
"Do you hear what this man says?" he said in a strained, unnatural voice. "That he is my father--that you are my mother! Is it true--tell me--is it true?"
"It is true."
A look of horror overspread his face, and flinging her away from him, with a cry of anguish he fell against the wall with white face and outstretched arms.
"My God! it is true."
His mother looked apprehensively at him for a moment, then fell on her knees weeping bitterly.
"Spurn me--curse me--despise me!" she cried in a broken voice. "You have every right to do so. I am your unhappy mother and he is your father. I lied when I said Fanny Blake and the Squire were your parents. I lied at your father's instigation in order to gain you a fortune. He designed the conspiracy--I carried it out."
"And I have been the dupe of both," interrupted Reginald fiercely, stepping forward with uplifted hand as if to strike her. "I don't believe this--it is a lie! You are my nurse."
"I am your mother."
The calm manner in which she made this assertion left no room for doubt, and Reginald Blake recoiled from that kneeling figure as if it had been a snake.
"My mother!" he muttered convulsively. "Great Heavens! my mother!"
Patience saw how he shrank from her, and a great wave of despair swept over her soul as she struggled forward on her knees, flinging out her arms towards him with a bitter cry.
"Oh, forgive me--forgive me!" she wailed. "I did it for the best; I did, indeed. I denied you were my child in order to save your good name, and I only swore the lie about Fanny Blake in order to make you rich. Do not shrink from me, my son, I implore you. Think how I have suffered all these years--how I have sacrificed my life for your sake. Have pity, Reginald, as you hope for mercy. Have mercy!"
Reginald Blake stood quiet for a moment, then, controlling himself by a powerful effort, raised her to her feet. As he did so she looked timidly at his face, but saw therein no pity, no tenderness; only the look of a man suffering agony. He placed her in a chair and, without looking at her, advanced towards the table.
"Before I can believe this story," he said in a hard voice, "I require some proof of it. By the Squire's will the property was left to the person who produced a certain paper, written by him, and a ring. They were both found in his desk, directed to me. If I am not the Squire's son how did this happen?"
"I can explain that very easily," replied Beaumont, taking some papers out of his breast coat pocket. "When I came down here a few months ago, I heard of the Squire's madness regarding his re-incarnation, and by means of a hypnotic sleep I found out from his own lips that he intended to leave all his property to a fictitious son, who was to be himself in a new body. Being under my control in the hypnotic state, he showed me where the paper and ring were hidden. I took them from their hiding place and filled up the paper with your name and that of Fanny Blake. I then enclosed the ring and paper in an envelope which the Squire had directed to you, resealed it, and, getting the keys of his desk, placed them therein, where they were found. You understand?"
"I understand; but why did the Squire direct an envelope to me?"
"Because he wanted to help you, and wrote this letter and this cheque, which he enclosed in an envelope to be given to you by your mother. I used the envelope as I explained, and kept the letter and cheque by me. Here they are as a proof of the truth."
Reginald took up the papers the artist placed upon the table and glanced over them, then placed them in his pocket, and turning away took up his hat.
"Where are you going?" asked Beaumont, alarmed at his action.
"I am going to see Dr. Larcher and tell him all," answered his son sternly. "What other course is there for me to take?"
"To hold your tongue," said the artist eagerly. "Surely you're not such a fool as to give up possession of an estate like this for a mere feeling of honour. Pay me a stated income and I will hold my tongue. Your mother will be silent for her own sake, so no one will know the truth."
Reginald looked at him with unutterable contempt.
"After bringing me so low as you have done do you think I am going to sink lower of my own free will?" he said in a scornful tone. "No! a thousand times no. I would not keep this property another day if it were ten million a year. I see what your plan has been--to threaten me with exposure if I did not bribe you to silence. You have mistaken me. I am not so base as that. This property shall go back to its rightful owner, and you will not receive one penny either from her or from me."
"I am your father."
"You are my father--yes, God help me! If I am to believe this story you are my father--a father I despise and loathe. One question more I only ask--are you my mother's husband?"
"No," said Beaumont sullenly, "I am not."
Reginald turned a shade paler and laughed bitterly.
"What have I done to be punished like this?" he said, raising his face in agony. "You have taken away the wealth I wrongfully possessed, you have deprived me of my good name, of my self-respect, but, as God is above us, you shall not make me vile in my own sight by doing your wicked will."'
Another moment and the door closed, so that Patience and Beaumont were alone. Rising from her seat she took off her bonnet.
"What are you going to do?" asked Beaumont savagely, all his innate brutality showing itself now that the mask was dropped.
"I am going to stay here, to-night," she said, unsteadily walking to the door, "and to-morrow I will go to London, never to return."
"What about the Grange?"
"I shall never go back to the Grange," answered the woman slowly, "there is no home for me there; you have done your worst, Basil Beaumont--done your worst--and failed."
Again the door closed and Beaumont was left alone--alone with his ruined hopes and his despair.
"Failed," he muttered savagely, looking into the fire. "Yes, I have failed to get the money, but I shall not fail to ruin Reginald Blake for all that; he thinks he will still marry the heiress of the Grange; he can set his mind at rest--he will never marry Una Challoner."
Though he seems to thee an angelLet him not thy heart beguile,He's a devil from a strange hell,Evil lurks beneath his smile.
Though he seems to thee an angel
Let him not thy heart beguile,
He's a devil from a strange hell,
Evil lurks beneath his smile.
Round the old Grange the winds were howling dismally, and now that the thaw had set in the sadness of the place was increased by the incessant dripping of the melted snow. The dead leaves in the park were sodden and heavy, so heavy, indeed, that they could not be moved by the keen wind, which, in revenge, shook the bare boughs of the trees, or whistled dismally through the cracks and crannies of the old building.
Una sat at the window of the parlour looking out at the heavy, grey sky, to which the bleak trees lifted up their gaunt arms, and listening to the monotonous dripping on the terrace. But, in spite of the dreariness and solitude of the place, surely her heart should have been lighter and her face gayer than it was, seeing that in a few days she was going to be united to the man she loved. But the shadow on the dismal landscape also rested upon her face, and even the lively chatter of Miss Cassy about the wedding could not bring a smile into her mournful eyes.
"I'm sure, Una dear, I'm glad you're going to be married," said Miss Cassy, who had put the tea cosy on her head preparatory to leaving the room, "but really I don't know what's coming over things; you look so sad--quite like a mourner, you know--the Mourning Bride of what's-his-name--and then for Patience to stay away all night! Why does she do it?--why!--why!--she never did it before, and then those letters you got this morning, what are they about?--it's all so odd, I really don't know what things are coming to."
"Things are going very well, aunt," said Una with a faint smile. "Patience stayed all night in the village because of the storm last night, and as to those letters, I'll tell you all about them later on."
"Yes, do, let me share your confidence, at least. I brought you up from pinafores, you know, quite like my own child. Oh, I wish I had one. Why haven't I a child? Now, I know what you're going to say--marriage, of course--but I've never had the chance, nobody wanted to marry me--so odd--I would have made a loving wife--quite like an ivy--really a clinging ivy. Oh, if I could only find my oak."
The little lady fluttered tearfully out of the room, leaving Una sitting alone with the letters on her lap, looking out at the dreary scene. She sighed sadly, and gathering the letters together arose from her chair, when just at that moment a ring came to the front-door bell. Una started apprehensively and her pale face grew yet paler, but she said nothing, only stood like a statue by the window with an expectant look upon her face. Hardly had the harsh jingle of the bell ceased to echo through the house when Jellicks entered, and wriggling up to Una, announced in a hissing whisper that Mr. Beaumont desired to see her.
"Mr. Beaumont," murmured Una, starting suddenly, "what does he want, I wonder? I'd better see him, it may do some good--some good. Yes!" she said aloud, "I will see him; Jellicks, show Mr. Beaumont into this room."
She resumed her seat by the window as Jellicks vanished, and shortly afterwards the door opened and Basil Beaumont, looking haggard and fierce, stood before her. He bowed, but did not attempt any warmer greeting, and she, on her part, simply pointed to a chair near her, upon which he took his seat.
"I suppose you are astonished to see me, Miss Challoner?" he said, after a pause.
"I confess I am a little," she replied calmly, "I thought you were up in London."
"So I was, but I came down to Garsworth yesterday."
"Indeed? Our quiet little village must have great attractions to draw you away from London."
"I did not come down without an object, Miss Challoner," he said gravely, "I have a duty to fulfil."
"Towards whom?"
"Yourself. Yes, I came down from London especially to see you."
"It's very kind of you to take so much trouble upon my account," she said coldly, looking keenly at him. "May I ask what this duty is to which you allude?"
"It is the duty of an honest man towards a wronged woman," said Beaumont quietly.
"Meaning me?"
"Meaning yourself," he asserted solemnly.
"You speak in riddles, Mr. Beaumont," said Una, folding her hands. "I will be very glad if you will explain them."
"Certainly. Two months ago your cousin died and left all his property to a supposed son, who turned out to be Reginald Blake; I have now to inform you that Reginald Blake is no connection whatever of Squire Garsworth, consequently his assumption of the property is a fraud."
"What do you mean, sir?" said Una quickly. "I understood Mr. Blake's identity was fully established----"
"Yes, by Patience Allerby," interrupted Beaumont quickly. "She said he was the son of Fanny Blake and the Squire, knowing such a statement to be false."
"Then who are Mr. Blake's parents?"
"Patience Allerby and myself."
Una arose from her seat with an angry colour in her cheeks.
"You--you Reginald's father--impossible!"
"It's perfectly true," he replied calmly. "Patience Allerby came up to London many years ago with me, and when Reginald was born she left me and came down here, bringing up our son under another name. I, as you know, came to Garsworth some time ago, and saw her again, but she asked me to say nothing, so I obeyed her, but now that I find she has committed a fraud, of which you are the victim, I naturally hasten to put it right."
"Did Mr. Blake know he was not the heir?"
"He did from the first," asserted Beaumont audaciously. "I have no doubt his mother told him his true birth, and knowing the Squire's mania about re-incarnation they made this conspiracy up together in order to defraud you of the property."
"So Mr. Blake has deceived me?" said Una, in an unnaturally quiet tone.
"Yes, he has deceived you all along. I have no doubt he prepared all the forged documents which proved his identity with the supposed son, and counted on your love for him not to prosecute should anything be discovered. I'm glad I have been able to warn you in time. You will never marry him now."
"But the property; do you think he will keep the property?"
"He will try to I've no doubt," said Beaumont gravely, "but if you intrust your case to experienced hands, I have no doubt he will be made to disgorge his plunder."
"But to whom can I turn?" said Una helplessly. "I have no friend."
Beaumont arose to his feet, and came close to her.
"Yes, you have one--myself."
"You?" she cried, recoiling with a shudder.
"Yes. I love you passionately, Una, and if you will be my wife, I will recover your property for you."
"But--your own son?"
"I despise a son who could act as Reginald has done. I came down here expecting to find an honourable man, but instead I discover a scoundrel, a forger, and a thief."
"Is it all true what you have said?" murmured Una, looking straight at him.
"All true," he answered solemnly, "I swear it."
"You liar!"
He started back in amazement, for she was facing him like an enraged tigress, with crimson cheeks and blazing eyes.
"What do you mean?" he said in a hoarse whisper.
"Mean?" she repeated scornfully. "That I know all, Basil Beaumont. Do you see this letter? I received it from your unhappy son this morning, giving me back the property and revealing the whole of your nefarious scheme. I know who forged the documents--you! I know who hoped to enjoy the money through Reginald--you! I know who comes with lies on his lips to part me from the only man I love--you! Yes--you! you! you!"
The baffled schemer stood nervously fingering his hat, with a white sullen face, all his courage having left him. So mean, so cowardly, so despicable he looked, shrinking back against the wall before this young girl, who towered over him like an inspired Pythoness.
"You tell me Reginald Blake knew of this base conspiracy," she said with contempt. "Does this letter look like it? You say he will refuse to give up the property--this letter says he surrenders it of his own free will--and you have the insolence to speak of love to me. You--who so shamefully tricked and betrayed Patience Allerby--you contemptible hound!"
He tried to smile defiantly, and made an effort to form a word with his white quivering lips, but both attempts were a failure, and without glancing at her he slunk towards the door, looking like a beaten hound.
"Yes, slink away like the craven you are," she cried disdainfully, "and leave Garsworth at once, or I will prosecute you for your scoundrelly conduct. Yes, though you were twenty times Reginald's father."
"I've spoilt his chance anyhow," he hissed venomously.
"You have spoilt nothing of the sort," she retorted superbly. "Do you think I believe the words of a vile thing like you against this letter? I am going to Reginald Blake, to day, and will place myself and my fortune in his hands--in spite of your falsehoods I will marry him, and he will still be master of Garsworth Grange--but, as for you, leave the village at once, or I will have you hounded out of it, as you deserve to be--you cur!"
He was white with anger and shame, tried to speak, but with an imperious gesture she stopped him with one word:
"Go!"
He slunk out of the door at once, a ruined and disgraced man.
When Dame Fortune frowns severest,Then I love thee best of all,I will cling to thee, my dearest,/p>Though the world in ruins fall.
When Dame Fortune frowns severest,
Then I love thee best of all,
I will cling to thee, my dearest,/p>
Though the world in ruins fall.
Dr. Larcher was in his study talking to Reginald Blake, who sat near the writing table, leaning his head upon his hand with his arm resting on the desk. The face of the good Vicar was somewhat clouded, as he felt deeply for the unhappy young man, and he was trying to speak words of comfort to him, although he felt how difficult it was to converse cheerfully under present circumstances. Reginald, however, had taken this second discovery more easily than he had done the first, perhaps because he had suffered so much already that he could not suffer more. At all events, his face, though pale, was perfectly composed, and there was a look of determination about his lips and a serene light in his eyes which gave great satisfaction to Dr. Larcher.
"I must say, my dear boy," he said kindly, "that you have great cause for sorrow, but you must bear adversity like a man, and I feel sure the result will be beneficial to your future life--sooner or later we all feel what Goethe calls 'world sorrow,' and it is that which changes us from careless youth to thoughtful manhood--your trial has come earlier and has been a more bitter one than that of most men, but believe me, out of this apparent evil good will come; remember the saying of the old Roman lyrist,Perrupit Acheronta Herculeus labor--time will bring you relief, and, if you resist manfully, you also will be able to break through this Acheron of sorrow and pain."
Reginald listened attentively to this long discourse, and, at its conclusion, lifted his head proudly.
"I agree with all you say, sir," he replied steadily, "and hope to profit by your advice, but you must not think me a mere weakling who gives in without a struggle when trials come. No, I think your training has taught me more than that. I feel bitterly the circumstances of my birth, and in having parents I can neither honour nor respect, but the cruellest blow of all is that I must renounce all hope of the woman I love--it is very hard, indeed, to almost gain the prize and then lose it through no fault of my own."
"I think you misjudge Una," said the vicar quietly, "she is not the woman to act in such a way--in fact, now that you have met with misfortune, I think she will love you more than before."
"I hope so, yet I doubt it," replied the young man gloomily; "but now that all my past is ended in ruin I must look to the future and try and win a respected name--which I have not got now. But first, what am I to do about my parents?"
"Regarding your father," said the vicar thoughtfully, "I don't think you will see any more of him, as he will probably leave the village to-day--now that he can gain nothing from you he will probably leave you alone--but as to your mother, your place is certainly by her side."
"But look how she has deceived me."
"If she has erred it is through love of you," replied Dr. Larcher gravely, "and after all she is bound to you by the ties of nature. Yes, you must look after her; but what about yourself?"
"I will go to London and make a fortune by my voice."
"Your last sojourn in London was not productive of any good result," said the vicar in gentle rebuke.
"Perhaps not, but if I erred it was with my head not my heart. I was miserable, and tried to drown my sorrows in dissipation, but now I go to town under widely different circumstances--a pauper where I once was wealthy--so my only dissipation now will be hard work."
"That is right," said the vicar, approvingly. "I am glad to see you accept the inevitable in such spirit--levius fit patientia Quidquid corrigere est nefas."
"It's the only spirit in which I can accept the future," answered Reginald sadly, "seeing that I am to pass the rest of my life without Una."
"As I said before, you wrong her; she is too noble a woman to leave you now you are in trouble."
"I wish I was as certain as you are," said Blake, rising to his feet and walking to and fro, "but after what has passed I am afraid to hope."
At this moment a knock came to the door, and immediately afterwards Una Challoner entered. She looked pale in her dark mourning garments, but there was a soft light in her eyes as they rested on Reginald which comforted the vicar greatly.
"Welcome, my dear," he said heartily, rising and taking her hand, "you could not have come at a happier time. Reginald has great need of you, so I will leave you both together, and I hope you will prove the David to his Saul, in order to chase away the evil shadow that is on him."
When the vicar had departed and closed the door after him Una stood in silence, looking at Reginald, who had sat down again. So sad, so despondent was his attitude, that all the love of her heart went out towards him, and walking gently up to her lover she touched his shoulder.
"Reginald."
"Yes," he said, lifting his heavy eyes to her face. "What is it? Have you come to reproach me?"
"Reproach you with what, my poor boy?" she asked, tenderly, kneeling beside him. "What have you done that I should come to you with harsh words?"
"You are a good woman, Una," said Blake sadly, putting his hand caressingly upon her head, "but I think there is a limit even to your forbearance."
"What nonsense you talk," she said lightly. "I understand everything--you are not responsible for the sins of your parents."
"I cannot marry you now," he replied in a low voice. "I can offer you nothing except poverty and a dishonoured name."
"You can offer me yourself," said Una with a smile, "and that is all I want. As to your dishonoured name, you forget you have given that up--your name now is Reginald Garsworth."
"It was, but I surrender it with the property."
"I hardly see that, seeing there is no question of surrender. Yes," she went on, seeing the astonishment depicted on his face, "things are going to remain exactly as they are. You will still be titular lord of the manor, and we will look upon this conspiracy of your unhappy parents as if it had never existed."
"Impossible," he muttered. "I cannot rob you of your property."
"Don't I tell you there is no robbery?" she replied rapidly. "As man and wife we will share the property in common, so there is no necessity for you to surrender what will soon come back to you by marriage."
"I had given up all hope of the marriage!"
"Ah! you don't know how determined I am when I take a thing into my head," she said playfully. "We will be married next week, and you will retain the property just as if nothing had occurred. No one knows the truth of the affair except your parents, and they will not speak."
"My father will, I know his vindictive nature."
"Your father!" she repeated contemptuously. "Don't speak of Basil Beaumont by that name. He has been no father to you, and as for speaking you can set your mind at rest. He called upon me this morning, and I soon settled everything."
"He called on you?"
"Yes, with a lot of lies in his mouth, but I threatened to prosecute him if he did not leave the village, so by this time I think he is out of the neighbourhood. Don't trouble, my dear, Beaumont will hold his tongue for his own sake."
"And my mother?"
"I called at Kossiter's as I passed," she answered, "and found your mother had gone up to London this morning. We must find her out and give her some money to live on, for after all, whatever part she has taken in this conspiracy it was for love of you."
"Just what Dr. Larcher said."
"So you see everything is settled," she said joyously, rising from her knees, "we will be married next week and you will be master of Garsworth Grange."
Reginald was deeply affected by her noble conduct, and rising to his feet embraced her fondly.
"You are a noble woman," he said, with tears in his eyes, "but can I accept this sacrifice?"
"Why will you use such a word?--there is no sacrifice in what I do for the man I love."
"Remember I bring you nothing."
"You bring me yourself, that is all I want. Let the past be forgotten. When we are married you will forget all the troubles you have had."
He kissed her, smiling.
"You are my good angel," he said simply.
On mount and mere the moonlight liesDim shadows veil the western skies,On every stream the starlight gleams,And all is mystery and dreams.But now Night folds her sombre wings.The lark his morning carol sings,A rosy, light glows o'er the lawn,And lo! in splendour breaks the dawn.
On mount and mere the moonlight liesDim shadows veil the western skies,On every stream the starlight gleams,And all is mystery and dreams.But now Night folds her sombre wings.The lark his morning carol sings,A rosy, light glows o'er the lawn,And lo! in splendour breaks the dawn.
It was about a year since the marriage of Una with Reginald, and they were standing on the terrace of their hotel at Salerno, which overlooked the sea. Far below lay the blue ocean with its fringe of white waves breaking on a shore that extended in a curve round the base of the lofty mountains, the summits of which were clearly defined against the opaline sky. And what a wonderful sky it was, for the setting sun had irradiated the pure ether with most gorgeous colours. Great golden clouds in the west, forming a canopy over the intolerable brilliance of the sinking sun, melted into a delicate rose colour, which, rising towards the zenith, imperceptibly dissolved into a cold, clear blue, out of which peered a few stars. There were some boats on the sea with their broad sails, and the young couple on the terrace could hear every now and then the shrill voice of a minstrel singing a popular Italian air to the sharp notes of the mandolin.
It was a wonderfully picturesque scene, and one which would have enchanted the eye of an artist, but Mr. and Mrs. Garsworth, leaning over the terrace, were not looking at the splendours of sea and sky, being engaged one in reading and the other in listening to a letter which appeared to interest them deeply.
They had been wandering about the Continent in a desultory kind of fashion for many months, exploring all kinds of old-fashioned cities, with their treasures of bygone ages. They had gazed at the splendours of the Alhambra at Granada, enjoyed the brilliant glitter of Parisian life, wandered in quiet Swiss valleys under the white crest of Mont Blanc, seen the Wagner Festival at Bayreuth, and dreamed of mediæval ages in the narrow streets of Nuremberg and Frankfort. Then coming south they had beheld with delighted eyes the white miracle of Milan Cathedral, passed enchanted moonlit hours in the palace-sided canals of Venice, idled amid the awesome ruins of the Eternal City, and after seeing the smoking crest of Vesuvius rise over the marvellous bay of Naples, had come to pass a few days at Salerno, that wonderfully picturesque town, which recalls to the student of Longfellow memories of Elsa and her princely lover.
Reginald was perfectly happy. He had, it is true, lost all the gay carelessness of youth, but in its place he had found the deeper joy which arises out of a great sorrow. There never was a more devoted wife than Una, nor a more attached husband than Reginald, and the bitter sorrow which had shown them both how truly they loved one another had borne good fruit, for they had learnt to trust, love, and honour each other so implicitly that no shadow ever arose between them to darken their married life. At Salerno, however, they had found a letter from Miss Cassy, who had been left in charge of Garsworth Grange, giving all the news and urging them to return home again. Nor was the request unwelcome, for, now that his heart wound was to a certain extent cured, Reginald began to tire of the glowing landscapes of southern Europe, and to long for that cold northern land so fresh and green under its mists and rain.
Una was reading the letter and Reginald, leaning his arms on the balustrade of the balcony, gazed idly at the fantastic splendours of the scene before him, listening eagerly to the news which brought so vividly before him the long marshes, the dreary Grange, and the quiet village life of Garsworth.
"I do wish you would come back, Una," wrote Miss Cassy, who, by the way, wrote exactly as she spoke, "it seems so odd the long time you've been away. According to your instructions the Grange has been done up beautiful, and I'm sure you will see how my taste has improved it. It's not a bit dreary now, but bright and homelike, and I'm sure you and dear Reginald will love it when you see it again. I do so long to hear about your travels--Rome and Santa Lucia, you know--it's a song, isn't it----?"
Curiously enough, as Una was reading this the unseen minstrel below broke into the well-known air with its charming refrain. Reginald and Una looked at one another and laughed.
"What a wonderful coincidence," said Reginald, peering over the balcony to see the musician; "if we told that to Miss Cassy she wouldn't believe it; but never mind, go on with the letter."
"I got a letter from Dr. Nestley, the other day," read Una. "Of course, you know he married Cecilia Mosser, and went home to his own place, at some town in the North--I forget its name. He is quite reformed now, and makes an excellent husband. I hear he is making a good deal of money, and Cecilia is organist at a church up there. You remember how beautifully she played?"
"I'm glad they are happy," interrupted Reginald, heartily. "Poor Nestley's life was nearly ruined by that scampish father of mine."
"I see Aunty says something about him," said Una, quickly. "She writes: 'In the letter I received from Dr. Nestley, he says he heard that Mr. Beaumont--you remember, Una?--who stayed at Garsworth--a charming man--is in America, and has married a very rich lady.'"
"I wish her joy of the bargain," said Reginald, grimly. "I suppose he has quite forgotten my poor mother."
"Never mind, dear," answered Una. "I'm sure your mother is much happier now."
"As a Sister of Mercy," said Reginald, in a musing tone, "poking about among the slums of London. It's a curious life for her to take up."
"I think she always had a leaning that way," replied Una, with a sigh; "and it will make her forget the past."
"I wish she would accept some money, to make her comfortable."
"I don't think she will," said Mrs. Garsworth, folding up the letter; "but when we go back again, perhaps she'll give up London, and come back to Garsworth."
"I'm afraid not," replied Reginald, gravely. "My mother is a woman of strong will, and she thinks she has a sin to expiate, so she'll stay and labour there till she dies. Well, what else does Miss Cassy say?"
"Nothing particular," answered Una, putting the letter in her pocket. "Mrs. Larcher still labours under 'The Affliction.' Dr. Larcher has been to London, to attend some archæological meeting. Dick Pemberton has come in for his money and, Aunty thinks, has some idea of asking Pumpkin to be his wife."
"Pumpkin?" echoed Reginald, in a shocked tone. "No, Una, you forget--Eleanora Gwendoline."
They both laughed, and Una went on giving the news.
"Jellicks and Munks are both well, and Ferdinand Priggs is going to bring out a new volume of poems."
"Is he, really?" said Reginald, lightly. "Don't I pity the unhappy public! But all this news makes me home-sick, Una."
"I feel exactly the same," she replied, rising to her feet, and slipping her arm into that of her husband. "Let us go home again.'
"Yes, I think we will," said Reginald, after a pause, "I don't mind living at Garsworth, now you are with me, Una."
"And what about your voice?" she said, playfully. "Your wonderful voice, that was going to make your fortune?"
"Ah, that is a dream of the past," he said, half sadly. "I will settle down into a regular country squire, Una, and the only use I'll make of my voice will be to sing Lady Bell to you."
Then, putting his arm round her, he sang the last verse of the quaint old ballad:
"My Lady Bell, in gold brocade,Looked not so fair and sweet a maid,As when, in linsey woollen gown,She left for love the noisy town."
"My Lady Bell, in gold brocade,Looked not so fair and sweet a maid,As when, in linsey woollen gown,She left for love the noisy town."
His voice sounded rich and full in the mellow twilight, while the minstrel below stopped playing, as he heard the song floating through the shadowy air. The sun had sunk into the sea, and the stars were shining brilliantly. One long bar of vivid light stretched along the verge of the horizon, and the air was full of shadows and the perfume of unseen flowers.
"See!" said Reginald, pointing towards the band of light, "it is like the dawn."
"Yes!--the dawn of a new life for you and for me, dear," she whispered; and then they wandered along the terrace, through the shadows, with the hoarse murmur of the distant sea in their ears, but in their hearts the new-born feelings of joy and contentment.