"Ah, you don"t know him as I do!" and she sighed--"He stops at nothing. He will employ any base tool, any mean spy, to gain his own immediate purposes. And--and--" she hesitated--"you know I wrote to you about it---he saw us in the picture gallery---"
"Well!" said John, and his eyes kindled into a sudden light and fire--"What if he did?"
"You were telling me how much you disliked seeing women smoke"--she faltered--"And--and--you spoke of Psyche,--you remember---"
"I remember!" And John grew bolder and more resolute in spirit as he saw the soft rose flush on her cheeks and listened to the dulcet tremor of her voice--"I shall never forget!"
"And he thought--he thought---" here her words sank almost to a whisper--"that I--that you---"
He turned suddenly and looked down upon her where she lay. Their eyes met,--and in that one glance, love flashed a whole unwritten history. Stooping over her, he caught her little hands in his own, and pressed them against his heart with strong and pa.s.sionate tenderness.
"If he thought I loved you,"--he said--"he was right! I loved you then--I love you now!--I shall love you for ever--till death, and beyond it! My darling, my darling! You know I love you!"
A half sob, a little smile answered him,--and then soft, broken words.
"Yes--I know!--I always knew!"
He folded his arms about her, and drew her into an embrace from which he wildly thought not Death itself should tear her.
"And you care?" he whispered.
"I care so much that I care for nothing else!" she said--then, all suddenly she broke down and began to weep pitifully, clinging to him and murmuring the grief she had till now so bravely restrained--"But it is all too late!" she sobbed--"Oh my dearest, you love me,--and I love you,--ah!--you will never know how much!--but it is too late!-- I can be of no use to you!--I can never be of use! I shall only be a trouble to you,--a drag and a burden on your days!--oh John!--and a little while ago I might have been your joy instead of your sorrow!"
He held her to him more closely.
"Hush, hush!" he said softly, soothing her as he would have soothed a child,--and with mingled tenderness and reverence, he kissed the sweet trembling lips, the wet eyes, the tear-stained cheeks--"Hush, my little girl! You are all my joy in this world--can you not feel that you are?" And he kissed her again and yet again. "And I am so unworthy of you!--so old and worn and altogether unpleasing to a woman--I am nothing! Yet you love me! How strange that seems!--how wonderful!--for I have done nothing to deserve your love. And had you been spared your health and strength, I should never have spoken--never! I would not have clouded your sunny life with my selfish shadow. No! I should have let you go on your way and have kept silence to the end! For in all your vital brightness and beauty I should never have dared to say I love you, Maryllia!"
At this she checked her sobs, and looked up at him in vague amazement.
"You would never have spoken?"
"Never!"
"You would have let me live on here, quite close to you, seeing you every day, perhaps, without a word of the love in your heart?"
He kissed her, half-smiling.
"I think I should!"
"Then"--said Maryllia, with grave sweetness--"I know that G.o.d does mean everything for the best--and I thank Him for having made me a cripple! Because if my trouble has warmed your heart,--your cold, cold heart, John!"--and she smiled at him through her tears--"and has made you say you love me, then it is the most blessed and beautiful trouble I could possibly have, and has brought me the greatest happiness of my life! I am glad of it and proud of it,--I glory in it! For I would rather know that you love me than be the straightest, brightest, loveliest woman in the world! I would rather be here in your arms--so--" and she nestled close against him--"than have all the riches that were ever counted!--and--listen, John!"
Here, with her clinging, caressing arms, she drew his head down close to her breast--"Even if I have to die and leave you soon, I shall know that all is right with my soul!--yes, dear, dear John!-- because you will have taken away all its faults and made it beautiful with your love!--and G.o.d will love it for love"s sake, almost as much as He must love you for your own, John!"
There was only one way--there never has been more than one way--to answer such tender words, and John took that way by silencing the sweet lips that spoke them with a kiss in which the pent-up pa.s.sion of his soul was concentrated. The shadows of the winter gloaming deepened;--the firelight died down to a ma.s.s of rosy embers;-and when Cicely softly opened the door an hour later, the room was almost dark. But the scent of violets was in the air--she heard soft whisperings, and saw that two human beings at least, out of all a seeking world, had found the secret of happiness. And she stole away unseen, smiling, yet with glad tears in her eyes, and a little unuttered song in her heart--
"If to love is the best of all things known, We have gain"d the best in the world, mine own!
We have touch"d the summit of love--and live G.o.d Himself has no more to give!"
x.x.xII
The prime of youth is said to be the only time of life when lovers are supposed by poets and romancists to walk "on air," so as John Walden was long past the age when men are called young, it is difficult to determine the kind of buoyant element on which he trod when he left the Manor that evening. Youth!--what were its vague inchoate emotions, its trembling hesitations, its more or less selfish jealousies, doubts and desires, compared to the strong, glowing and tender pa.s.sion which filled the heart of this man, so long a solitary in the world, who now awaking to the consciousness of love in its n.o.blest, purest form, knew that from henceforth he was no longer alone! A life,--delicate and half broken by cruel destiny, hung on his for support, help and courage,--a soul, full of sweetness and purity, clung to him for its hope of Heaven! The glad blood quickened in his veins,--he was twice a man,--never had he felt so proud, so powerful, and withal so young. Like the Psalmist he could have said "My days are renewed upon the earth"--and he devoutly thanked G.o.d for the blessing and glory of the gift of love which above all others makes existence sweet.
"My darling!" he murmured, as he walked joyously along the little distance stretching between the lodge gates of the Manor and his own home--"She shall never miss one joy that I can give her! How fortunate it is that I am tall and strong, for when the summer days come I can lift her from her couch and carry her out into the garden like a little child in my arms, and she will rest under the trees, and perhaps gradually get accustomed to the loss of her own bright vitality if I do my utmost best to be all life to her! I will fill her days with varied occupations and try to make the time pa.s.s sweetly,--she shall keep all her interests in the village--nothing shall be done without her consent--ah yes!--I know I shall be able to make her happier than she would be if left to bear her trouble quite alone! If she were strong and well, I should be no fit partner for her--but as it is--perhaps my love may comfort her, and my unworthiness be forgiven!"
Thus thinking, he arrived at his rectory, and entering, pushed open the door of his study. There, somewhat to his surprise, he found Dr.
"Jimmy" Forsyth standing in a meditative att.i.tude with his back to the fire.
"Hullo, Walden!" he said--"Here you are at last! I"ve been waiting for you ever so long!"
"Have you?" and John, smiling radiantly, threw off his hat, and pushed back his grey-brown curls from his forehead--"I"m sorry!
Anything wrong?" Dr. "Jimmy" shrugged his shoulders.
"Nothing particular. Oliver Leach is dead,--that"s all!"
Walden started back. The smile pa.s.sed from his face, for, remembering the scarcely veiled threats of his parishioners, he began to fear lest they should have taken some unlawful vengeance on the object of their hatred.
"Dead!" he echoed amazedly--"Surely no one--no one has killed him?"
"Not a bit of it!" said Forsyth, complacently--"It just happened!"
"How?"
"Well, it appears that the rascal has been lying low for a considerable time in the house of our reverend friend, Putwood Leveson. That n.o.ble soul has been playing "sanctuary" to him, and no doubt warned him of the very warm feeling with which the villagers of St. Rest regarded him. He has been maturing certain plans, and waiting till an opportunity should arise for him to get away to Riversford, where apparently he intended to take up his future abode, Mordaunt Appleby the brewer having offered him a situation as brewery accountant. The opportunity occurred last night, so I hear.
He managed to get off with his luggage in a trap, and duly arrived at the Crown Inn. There he was set upon in the taproom by certain old friends and gambling a.s.sociates, who accused him of wilfully attempting to injure Miss Vancourt. He denied it. Thereupon they challenged him to drink ten gla.s.ses of raw whiskey, one on top of another, to prove his innocence. It was a base and brutal business, but he accepted the challenge. At the eighth gla.s.s he fell down unconscious. His companions thought he was merely drunk--but--as it turned out--he was dead." [Footnote: This incident happened lately in a village in the south of England.]
Walden heard in silence.
"It"s horrible!" he said at last--"Yet--I cannot say sorry! I suppose as a Christian minister I ought to be,--but I"m not! I only hope none of my people were concerned in the matter?"
"You may be quite easy on that score,"--replied Forsyth--"Of course there will be an inquest, and a severe reproof will be administered to the men who challenged him,--but there the affair will end. I really don"t think we need grieve ourselves unduly over the exit of one scoundrel from a world already overburdened with his species."
With that, he turned and poked the fire into a brighter blaze. "Let us talk of something else"--he said. "I called in to tell you that Santori is in London, and that I have taken the responsibility upon myself of sending for him to see Miss Vancourt."
Walden was instantly all earnest attention.
"Who is Santori?" he asked.
"Santori," replied Forsyth, "is a great Italian, whose scientific researches into medicine and surgery have won him the honour of all nations, save and except the British. We are very insular, my dear Walden!--we never will tolerate the "furriner" even if he brings us health and healing in his hand! Santori is a medical "furriner,"
therefore he is generally despised by the English medical profession. But I"m a Scotsman--I"ve no prejudices except my own!"
And he laughed--"And I acknowledge Santori as one of the greatest men of the age. He is a scientist as well as a surgeon--and his great "speciality" is the spine and nerves. Now I have never quite explained to you the nature of Miss Vancourt"s injuries, and there is no need even now to particularise them. The main point of her case is that in the condition she is now, she must remain a cripple for life,--and" here he hesitated,--"that life cannot, I fear, be a very long one."
Walden turned his head away for a moment.
"Go on!" he said huskily.
"At the same time," continued Dr. Forsyth, gently--"there are no bones broken,--all the mischief is centred in damage to the spine. I sent, as you know, for Wentworth Glynn, our best specialist in this country, and he a.s.sured me there was no hope whatever of any change for the better. Yesterday, I happened to see in the papers that Santori had arrived in London for a few weeks, and, acting on a sudden inspiration, I wrote him a letter at once, explaining the whole case, and asking him to meet me in consultation. He has wired an answer to-day, saying he will be here to-morrow."