"You need not have sent him to see me, Richard," she said, a little sadly. "I have been thoughtless, and hurt you. I--I will trouble no one but myself now."
"It was not the trouble, Ethel; you must know that," he returned, eagerly. "I wish I had the right to help you, but----"
His voice broke, and he dropped her hands. Perhaps he felt the time had not come to speak; perhaps an involuntary chill seized him as he thought of the little he had to offer her. His manner was very grave, almost reserved, during the rest of the visit; both of them were glad when a chance caller enabled Richard, without awkwardness, to take his leave.
After this, the young curate"s visits grew rarer, and at last almost entirely ceased, and they only met at intervals at the vicarage or the Gray House, as Dr. Heriot"s house was commonly called. Ethel made no complaint when she found she had lost her friend, only Mildred noticed that she grew paler, and drooped visibly.
Mildred"s tender heart bled for the lonely girl. Both she and her husband pleaded urgently that Ethel should leave her solitary home, and come to them for a little. But Ethel remained firm in her refusal.
"Your life is so perfect--so beautiful, Mildred," she said, once, when the latter had pressed her almost with tears in her eyes, "that I could not break in upon it with my sad face and moping ways. I should be more wretched than I am now."
"But at least you might have some lady with you; such perfect loneliness is good for no one. I cannot bear to think of you living in a corner of that great house all by yourself," returned Mildred, almost vexed with her obstinacy; and, indeed, the girl was very difficult to understand in those days.
"I have no friends but all of you dear people," she answered, in the saddest voice possible, "and I will not trouble you. I could not tolerate a stranger for a moment. Mildred, you must not be hurt with me; you do not know. I must have my way in this."
And though Mildred shook her wise head, and Dr. Heriot entered more than one laughing protest against such determined self-will, they were obliged to yield.
It was a strange life for so young a woman, and would have tried the strongest nerves; but the only wisdom that Ethel Trelawny showed was in not allowing herself an idle moment. The old dreaming habits were broken for ever, the fastidious choice of duties altogether forgotten; her days were chiefly devoted to her steward and tenants.
Richard, returning from his parochial visits to some outlying village, often met her, mounted on her beautiful brown mare, Zoe. Sometimes she would stop and give him her slim hand, and let him pet the mare and talk to her leaning on Zoe"s glossy neck; but oftener a wave of the hand and a pa.s.sing smile were her only greeting. Richard would come in stern and weary from these encounters, but he never spoke of them.
It was in the following spring that Boy and Polly were married.
Roy had been successful and had sold another picture, and as Mr. Lambert was disposed to be liberal to his younger son, there was no fear of opposition from Polly"s guardian, even if he could have resisted the pleadings of the young people.
But, after all, there was no actual imprudence. If Roy failed to find a continuous market for his pictures, there was still no risk of positive starvation. Mr. Lambert had been quite willing to listen to Richard"s representations, and to settle a moderate sum on Roy; for the present, at least, they would have enough and to spare, and the responsibility of a young wife would add a spur to Roy"s genius.
Richard was not behind in his generosity. Already his frugality had ama.s.sed a few hundreds, half of which he placed in Roy"s hands. Roy spent a whole day in Wardour Street after that. A wagon, laden with old carved furniture and wonderful _bric-a-brac_, drew up before The Hollies. New crimson velvet curtains and a handsome carpet found their way to the old studio. Polly hardly recognised it when she first set foot in the gorgeous apartment, and heaved a private sigh over the dear old shabby furniture. A little carved work-table and a davenport of Indian wood stood in a corner appropriated to her use; a sleep-wooing couch and a softly-cushioned easy-chair were beside them. Polly cried a little with joy when the young husband pointed out the various contrivances for her comfort. All the pretty dresses Dr. Heriot had given her, and even Aunt Milly"s thoughtful present of house-linen, which now lay in the new press, with a sweet smell of lavender breathing through every fold, were as nothing compared to Roy"s gifts. After all, it was an ideal wedding; there was youth, health, and good looks, with plenty of honest love and good humour.
"I have perfect faith in Polly"s good sense," Dr. Heriot had said to his wife, when the young people bad driven away; "she has just the qualities Rex wants. I should not wonder if they turn out the happiest couple in the world, with the exception of ourselves, Milly, darling."
The wedding had taken place in June, and the time had now come round for the rush-bearing. The garden of Kirkleatham, the vicarage, and the Gray House had been visited by the young band of depredators. Dr. Heriot"s gla.s.s-house had been rifled of its choicest blossoms; Mildred"s bonnie boy, still in his nurse"s arms, crowed and clapped his hands at the great white Annunciation lily that his mother had chosen for him to carry.
"You will not be late, John?" pleaded Mildred, as she followed him to the door, according to her invariable custom, on the morning of St.
Peter"s day; his wife"s face was the last he saw when he quitted his home for his long day"s work. At the well-known click of the gate she would lay down her work, at whatever hour it was, and come smiling to meet him.
"Where are you, Milly, darling?" were always his first words, if she lingered a moment on her way.
"You will not be later than you can help?" she continued, brushing off a spot of dust on his sleeve. "You must see Arnold carry his lily, and Ethel will be there; and--and--" blushing and laughing, "you know I never can enjoy anything unless you are with me."
"Fie, Milly, darling, we ought to be more sensible after two years. We are old married folks now, but if it were not for making my wife vain,"--looking at the sweet, serene face so near his own,--"I might say the same. There, I must not linger if I am under orders. Good-bye, my two treasures," placing the great blue-eyed fellow in Mildred"s arms.
When Mildred arrived at the park, under Richard"s guardianship,--he had undertaken to drive her and the child,--they found Ethel at the old trysting-place amongst a host of other ladies, looking sad and weary.
She moved towards them, tall and shadowy, in her black dress.
"I am glad you are here," said Richard, in a low voice. "I thought the Delawares would persuade you, and you will be quiet enough at the vicarage."
"I thought I ought to do honour to my G.o.dson"s first appearance in public," returned Ethel, stretching out her arms to the smiling boy.
Mildred and Dr. Heriot had begged Olive to fill the position of sponsor to the younger Arnold; but Olive had refused almost with tears.
"I am not good enough. Do not ask me," she had pleaded; and Mildred, knowing the girl"s sad humours, had transferred the request to Ethel; her brother and Richard had stood with her.
Richard had no time to say more, for already the band had struck up that heralded the approach of the little rush-bearers, and he must take his place at the head of the procession with the other clergy.
She saw him again in church; he came down the chancel to receive the children"s gay crowns. Ethel saw a broken lily lying amongst them on the altar afterwards. It struck her that his face looked somewhat sterner and paler than usual.
She was one of the invited guests at the vicarage; the Lamberts were this year up at the Hall; but later on in the afternoon they met in the Hall gardens: he came up at once and accosted her.
"All this is jarring on you terribly," he said, with his old thoughtfulness, as he noticed her tired face.
"I should be glad to go home certainly, but I do not like to appear rude to the Delawares; the music is so noisy, and all those flitting dancers between the trees confuse one"s head."
"Suppose we walk a little way from them," he returned, quietly. No one but a keen observer could have read a determined purpose under that quietness of his; Ethel"s worn face, her changed manners, were driving him desperate; the time had come that he would take his fate between his hands, like a man; so he told himself, as they walked side by side.
They had sauntered into the tree-bordered walk, leading to the old summer-house in the meadows. As they reached it, Ethel turned to him with a new sort of timidity in her face and voice.
"I am not tired, Richard--not very tired, I mean. I would rather go back to the others."
"We will go back presently. Ethel, I want to speak to you--I must speak to you; this sort of thing cannot go on any longer."
"What do you mean?" she asked, turning very pale, but not looking at him.
"That we cannot go on any longer avoiding each other like this. You have avoided me very often lately--have you not, Ethel?" speaking very gently.
"I do not know; you are so changed--you are not like yourself, Richard,"
she faltered.
"How can I be like myself?" he answered, with a sudden pa.s.sion in his voice that made her tremble; "how am I to forget that I am a poor curate, and you your father"s heiress; that I have fifties where you have thousands? Oh, Ethel, if you were only poor," his tone sinking into pathos.
"What have riches or poverty to do with it?" she asked, still averting her face from him.
"Do you not see? Can you not understand?" he returned, eagerly. "If you were poor, would it not make my wooing easier? I have loved you how long, Ethel? Is it ten or eleven years? I was a boy of fourteen when I loved you first, and I have never swerved from my allegiance."
"Never!" in a low voice.
"Never! When you called me Coeur-de-Lion, I swore then, lad as I was, that I would one day win my Berengaria. You have been the dearest thing in life to me, ever since I first saw you; and now that I should lose my courage over these pitiful riches! Oh, Ethel, it is hard--hard, just when a little hope was dawning on me that one day you might be able to return my affection. Was I wrong in that belief?" trying to obtain a glimpse of the face now shielded by her hands.
"Whatever I may feel, I know we are equals," she returned evasively.
"In one sense we are not," he answered, sadly; "a woman ought not to come laden with riches to overwhelm her husband. I am a clergyman--a gentleman, and therefore I fear to ask you to be my wife."
"Was Berengaria poor?" in a voice nearly inaudible; but he heard it, and his handsome face flushed with sudden emotion.
"Do you mean you are willing to be my Berengaria? Oh, Ethel, my own love, this is too much. Can you really care for me enough?"
"I have cared for you ever since you were so good to me in my trouble,"
she said, turning her glowing countenance, that he might read the truth of her words; "but you have made me very unhappy lately, Richard."