CHAPTER LVI.
‘Your heart is never away,But ever with mine, for ever,For ever, without endeavour,To-morrow, love, as to-day;Two blent hearts never astray,Two souls no power may sever,Together, O my love, for ever!’
‘Your heart is never away,But ever with mine, for ever,For ever, without endeavour,To-morrow, love, as to-day;Two blent hearts never astray,Two souls no power may sever,Together, O my love, for ever!’
‘Your heart is never away,But ever with mine, for ever,For ever, without endeavour,To-morrow, love, as to-day;Two blent hearts never astray,Two souls no power may sever,Together, O my love, for ever!’
‘Your heart is never away,
But ever with mine, for ever,
For ever, without endeavour,
To-morrow, love, as to-day;
Two blent hearts never astray,
Two souls no power may sever,
Together, O my love, for ever!’
There was a deal of trouble over it for a while, but when that faded photograph and the certificate and the diary were brought into a larger light things smoothed down. Shangarry saw at once how it must end, and accepted the situation gracefully; but Mrs. Prior was a little hard to manage until Ella (who refused point-blank to meet her) declared her determination not to take more than half the money that had been left toher by Sir John Burke, her grandfather. It was quite astonishing how Mrs. Prior softened towards her after that. But Ella stood firm and would not see her.
Later on she might consent to meet—at Lord Shangarry’s, perhaps (he had fallen in love with the pretty, gentle girl who had endured so much), or at Lady Forster’s house this season—Lady Forster had written a very charming note—but not just now. Gentle as Ella was, she could not forgive too readily. Yes, Lady Forster’s would be the best place. They would be in town after their honeymoon, and there they could see Mrs. Prior and break the ice, as it were.
But to-day no ice has to be broken. Ella, who has arranged with Wyndham to meet him in the old Rectory garden, has gone over quite early to be petted and made much of by all there—Carew excepted. That unhappy youth, his first grand passion having been ruthlessly laid in the dust, and with yet another new trouble that had arrived by the post some days ago upon his shoulders, hascarried himself and his injured affections far, far away, to a distant trout stream.
Wyndham is staying with Crosby, who is most honestly glad of his friend’s successful exit from a difficult situation. He has, indeed, been highly sympathetic all through, astonishingly so for so determined a bachelor, as he seems to Wyndham, who six months ago had seemed quite as determined a bachelor to Crosby. Only to-day, at luncheon, he had told Wyndham not to mind about leaving him when the ‘Rectory’ called. He (Crosby) might walk down there later on. But he advised Wyndham to hurry up, to start as early as he liked, not to wait for him, and so forth. Wyndham took him at his word, decided not to wait, and was therefore naturally a little surprised to find Crosby on the door-steps, not only ready to go with him, but distinctly impatient. This seemed such devotion to the cause, such honest friendliness towards him and Ella, that Wyndham felt quite grateful to him.
‘How happy they look!’ says Miss Barry to Susan, finding herself alone with her niece for a moment. She is looking at Wyndham and Ella, who indeed seem to have reached their pinnacle of bliss. ‘And no wonder,’ with a sigh. ‘He is a most excellent match. Not only money, but a title—in the distance. I can’t help wishing, Susan,’ sighing again, and more heavily this time, ‘that it had been you.’
‘Me! I wouldn’t marry him for anything,’ says Susan indignantly.
‘That’s what girls always say,’ says Miss Barry mournfully, ‘until they are asked.’ Perhaps she herself had said it many times. ‘But I assure you, Susan, money is a good thing—and your poor father just now, with the loss of this four hundred pounds that he had laid aside for Carew——’
‘Oh, I know!’ says Susan miserably. ‘It is dreadful. Poor, poor father—and poor Carew, too! I suppose he can’t go in for his exam now?’
‘No, I’m afraid not, unless some miraculousthing should occur. Susan!’—Miss Barry looks wistfully at her niece—‘James, now, he will be well off—and he could help us. If you could——’
‘Could what?’ Susan’s eyes are almost menacing.
‘Think of him—in that way. He is well off, my dear, and——’
‘I shall not marry James,’ says Susan distinctly. ‘I wonder how you could suggest it to me.’
‘Certainly he is very ugly,’ says Miss Barry, who has grown, poor soul, very meek of late; the smashing of the bank that had held the four hundred pounds, the savings of years, that the Rector had laid by with the hope of putting his eldest boy into the army, has lowered her spirit. Poverty seems to pursue them. And the sight of the Rector, crushed and more gaunt than usual, has gone to her old heart. If only Susan—any of them—could be provided for. How happy that girl Ella is! how rich the man is who has chosen her! and yet is she to be so muchas compared with Susan? Miss Barry’s soul swells within her at the injustice of it all.
If only Susan could be induced to think of James McIlveagh. But no, Susan is not like that. She looks up suddenly, and there before her eyes are James and Susan strolling leisurely, in quite a loverlike way, towards the little shrubbery. Can the girl have taken her hint to heart? A glow of hope radiates her mind for a moment. But then come other thoughts, and fear, and trouble, and a keen, strange disappointment.
No, no! Susan—Susan to be worldly! Her pretty girl! God grant she has not been the means of driving her to belie her better—her own—self.
Good gracious! If Susan comes back and tells her she has engaged herself to James because of her father’s trouble—because of Carew’s trouble—what shall she do? Miss Barry, who is hardly equal to emergencies so great as this, looks with a certain wildness round her. Who can help her? Thatfoolish girl must be sent for; brought back from that shrubbery where Miss Barry, in her panic, feels now assured James is once again, for the hundredth time, proposing to her, and being (no doubt to his everlasting astonishment) accepted. The last words can’t have been said as yet: there may still be time to drag Susan out of the fire.
Wyndham and Ella and Miss Manning are coming towards her. Ella is going home; it is nearly seven o’clock, and Wyndham will have barely time to see her to the Cottage and catch his train to Dublin. Miss Barry bids him a rather hurried good-bye, and then looks round for Betty. Betty is always useful—when she can be found! But unfortunately Betty and Dom have gone off to eat green gooseberries in the vegetable garden, a fearsome occupation, of which they are both disgracefully fond, and that seems to affect their stomachs in no wise. Betty, therefore, is not to be had, but Miss Barry’s troubled eye wandering round sees Crosby, who is sitting with Bonnie on his knee, andwith courage born of desperation she beckons him to come to her.
‘Mr. Crosby, I want Betty. Where is she?’
‘I think she went into the garden a moment ago with Dom.’
‘Do you mind—would you be so good as to tell her I want her, and at once?’
‘Certainly,’ says Crosby, laughing; ‘though she and Dom, or both, bring down all the anathemas in the world on my head.’
He starts on his quest, a little glad, indeed, to get away from the others. Early in the afternoon he had had a little tiff with Susan—just a small thing, a mere breeze, and certainly of his own creating. He had said something about James—why the deuce can’t he leave James alone? But it seems he can’t of late; and Susan had been a little, just a little—what was it?—offended? Well, put out in some way, at all events. Perhaps after all she does care for James. Like to like, you know—and youth to youth; and there can be but a year or two between him and Susan.
At this moment there is a quick movement of the branches on his left; someone is pushing the laurel bushes aside with an angry, impatient touch, and now——
Susan has stepped into view; a new Susan—angry, pale, hurried. Her soft eyes are dark and frowning, but as she sees Crosby they lighten again, and grow suddenly thick with tears. Then, as though in him lie comfort and protection, she runs to him, holding out her hands.
He catches them, and saying nothing, draws her down the bank and into a little leafy recess that leads to a small wood beyond. The touch of her hand is good to him. She has forgiven, then, that late little conflict. She can be angry with James, too, it seems. Confound that fool! What has he been saying to her?
‘Well?’ says he.