There was silence for a few minutes between Rowland and Freda, and their quick steps slackened. At last:
"I thank you from my heart, Miss Gwynne," said Rowland, for all your kindness to my dear sister. It must cease, alas! but it will never be forgotten."
"Poor Netta! my old playfellow! I was only too thankful to be of any service. I wish we could have saved her."
"G.o.d knows best. Her husband is in Newgate gaol."
Rowland said this with a great effort; Freda started, and there was again a brief silence.
"Miss Gwynne, I have long wished to say to you, how much I have felt your devotion to the schools and poor of our parish. Now that we are about to lose you, perhaps, I may do so. Glanyravon will gain what our poor East End loses."
"Thank you. If I leave London in a better spirit than I entered it, I am in great measure indebted to you for it."
"To me!"
"Yes. I do not wish to flatter, or to be religiously sentimental; but your practical, simple sermons, and your still more practical life have done me much good. Now we will not compliment one another any more."
"Oh, Miss Gwynne! you do not know what you do when you say such words to me."
"I simply tell the truth."
"I, too, have another truth to tell, which, if not told now, will never be told."
Freda"s heart beat quick, and her face flushed. She was thankful that silence concealed the one, and night the other. But the truth was not what the heart whispered, and the pulsation slackened.
"Years ago--I know not how many years, the time seems so long, and yet so short--I insulted you by words that should never have been said. We were on this very drive, near this very spot--the same moon was looking down upon us. This very tree was over our heads. Do you remember? You do--alas! you must. Pride, most improper pride in one who should be a teacher of humility, has prevented my alluding to the subject ever since."
Rowland paused, and he and Freda stood still beneath that old oak, so well remembered by both. She did not speak; she could not for the moment; and Rowland continued,--
"Those words, which called forth your severe and deserved reproof, should never have been said; but your kindness, the hour, the scene, my own excited feelings, my--in short, they were called forth involuntarily, but were wholly inexcusable. I forgot my birth and position, and was punished accordingly. Pride has kept me silent ever since. Pride has prevented my saying that I am sorry now that I so forgot myself then, and pride has made me cold and reserved to you, when I saw clearly that you wished to be my friend, and have since proved yourself such. Will you forgive me?"
Freda did not, as when they once before stood beneath that huge oak, draw herself up to her full height, and make an indignant answer. She trembled, and glanced very timidly into the face that looked down upon hers. There, in the cold moonlight, with the icicles hanging from the old tree, and the frost-spirit hovering near, she read that face more truly than she had done in the genial summer moonshine, and wished those words had never been spoken. She said, gently but decidedly,--
"Mr Rowland, it is I, not you who ought to crave forgiveness. You did me an honour of which I was not deserving, and, therefore, I could not appreciate it. I have repented of those proud words almost ever since. I am heartily ashamed of them, and beg you to try to forget that they were ever uttered."
Once more there was a momentary silence, then Rowland said firmly,--
"Miss Gwynne, you must understand that I only regret the boldness of my conduct, and that I did not conceal my feelings from you as from the rest of the world. I do not regret the feelings; do not apologise for them. They were my own, engendered by nature and circ.u.mstances, given me by G.o.d, as part of my portion of trial in this world; they grew with me from childhood, ever since I used to play with you at the vicarage--they were fostered by your father"s kindness and my own self-esteem, as well as by your presence, which I ought to have fled; they are with me still, have never left me, will be my weakness and my strength so long as this earthly warfare lasts."
"And is it really so?" said Freda, a large tear glittering in the eyes into which the moon, the frost-spirit, and Rowland were equally looking.
Two hands were tightly clasped that had hitherto scarcely dared to touch each other; two hearts were for ever united, that hitherto had been as far estranged as Vesuvius and the icebergs.
I know that many cynical and sentimental readers will ask if there is no danger of the pair of lovers taking cold on an evening in January, whilst thus mutually discovering the "eternal pa.s.sion" in the presence of the "Erl-king."
Rowland and Freda seem to ask the same question, for, loosening that close grasp of hands, and without one word of love, they walk hastily towards the house. Rowland talks rapidly the whole way, interrupted by an occasional sentence from Freda. Readers, there is no proposal, no acceptance. The conversation is as follows:--
_Rowland._--I have just received letters from the Bishop of London and Mr Jones offering me the living, and telling me that the parishioners wish me for their rector. I am most thankful now, for it puts me in a very different position--it allows me to hope, and with less presumption.
_Freda._--It makes no difference to me, you are yourself whether rector or curate. But I rejoice for your sake, and to know that they appreciate you.
_Rowland._--You will know and believe that it was Miss Gwynne, Freda, the woman, not the heiress, that I have loved so long and so well.
_Freda._--I am no longer an heiress; you are far the best off.
_Rowland._--I am most thankful. Had this wide park still been yours, I could never have said what I have dared to say to-day; but let me repeat once more your words that I may remember who I am--a farmer"s son, your father"s tenant.
_Freda._--A clergyman, a gentleman, and a Christian.
_Rowland._--My brother-in-law a--a--felon.
_Freda._--Yourself not changed by your brother-in-law"s crimes.
_Rowland._--If then in the course of another year our present painful position should be forgotten, or at least, at rest, when I am established at the rectory as rector, when I can come forward on my own responsibility, when, in short, I can say without compunction all I now feel, may I hope?"
_Freda._--Then as now, you may be certain.
They were on the steps before the door of the house; again their hands were firmly clasped.
_Rowland._--Till then, farewell, and G.o.d bless you.
_Freda._--Will you not come in?
_Rowland._--No, I would rather not now.
_Freda._--Then G.o.d bless you, and be with you during your coming trial.
And thus they parted, happy, and having perfect faith in one another.
CHAPTER LI.
THE CONVICT.
Forgeries of all sorts are so much the taste of genteel rogues of the present age, that the reader will readily dispense with a detailed account of the trial and conviction of Howel Jenkins. Any one of the various cases that fill those columns of the _Times_, devoted to such criminalities, will give a very good general idea of his. All that his mother"s remnant of his father"s h.o.a.rded wealth could do, was done, to prove him guiltless, but in vain. Counsel pleaded, some of his turf friends, themselves of doubtful reputation, spoke to his character, and he sat through his trial as imperturbably as if he had been at a dinner-party. The prosecutors, Sir Samuel Spendall and Sir Horatio Simpson, met with deserved reproofs for allowing themselves to be swindled, almost before their faces, out of money and property to an enormous amount.
Long before his father"s death, Howel had begun a system of betting-book cheating, and forgery on a small scale, which had ceased for a short time when he came into his enormous wealth, but recommenced as that wealth dwindled. Numerous instances came out from various sources whilst he was in America,--all his former a.s.sociates being ready to leave his setting sun, for the rising one of his accusers.
Sir S. Spendall and Sir H. Simpson were sole prosecutors, and between forgeries on banks, and in betting-books, and the unjust acquisition of Spendall Lodge, Howel was found guilty of forgeries to the amount of some fifty or sixty thousand pounds, and sentenced to transportation for fourteen years. So much general villainy transpired amongst the set in which these crimes were committed, and the prosecutors themselves were so weak and dissipated, that the sentence was supposed to be less severe than it might have been under other circ.u.mstances.
The nefarious conduct of Mr Deep as Howel"s attorney, and the enormous interest he was found to have received, caused him to be struck off the rolls, and very little evidence was wanting to prove him an accomplice in Howel"s villainy. However, it was not forthcoming, and so Howel suffered alone.
It was generally rumoured that Howel had forged his mother"s name, at various times, to a very large amount; but, as she vigorously denied the fact, and acknowledged every signature as her own, the case was, of course, not brought forward.