"I want you to remember me; it is folly, I know, but it is a harmless folly; all human nature shares in it, and"--there was a little tremble, and a momentary interruption--"and your old tutor, the sage who lectured you so wisely, is, after all, no less a fool than the rest. Will you keep this little cross? It belonged to my mother, and is, by permission of my superiors, my own, so you may accept it with a clear conscience."
He smiled. "If you wear it, or even let it lie on your table, it will sometimes"--the same momentary interruption occurred again--"it may perhaps remind you of one who took a deep interest in you."
It was a beautiful little gold cross, with five brilliants in it.
"And oh, Ethel! let me look at you once again."
He led me--it was only a step or two--out of the shadow of the tree into the bright moonlight, and, still holding my hand, looked at me intently for a little time with a smile, to me, the saddest that ever mortal face wore.
"And now, here she stands, my wayward, generous, clever Ethel! How proud I was of my pupil! The heart knoweth its own bitterness," he said gently. "And oh! in the day when our Redeemer makes up his jewels, may you be precious among them! I have seen you; farewell!"
Suddenly he raised my hand, and kissed it gently, twice. Then he turned, and walked rapidly down to the water"s edge, and stepped into the boat.
The men dipped their oars, and the water rose like diamonds from the touch. I saw his dark figure standing, with arm extended, for a moment, in the stern, in his black cloak, pointing towards Golden Friars. The boat was now three lengths away; twenty--fifty; out on the bosom of the stirless water. The tears that I had restrained burst forth, and sobbing as if my heart would break I ran down to the margin of the lake, and stood upon the broad, flat stone, and waved my hand wildly and unseen towards my friend, whom I knew I was never to see again.
I stood there watching, till the shape of the boat and the sound of the oars were quite lost in the grey distance.
CHAPTER LVI.
"LOVE TOOK UP THE GLa.s.s OF TIME."
Weeks glided by, and still the same clear, bright frost, and low, cold, cheerful suns. The dogs so wild with spirits, the distant sounds travelling so sharp to the ear--ruddy sunsets--early darkness--and the roaring fires at home.
Sir Harry Rokestone"s voice, clear and kindly, often heard through the house, calls me from the hall; he wants to know whether "little Ethel"
will come out for a ride; or, if she would like a drive with him into the town to see the skaters, for in the shallower parts the mere is frozen.
One day I came into Sir Harry"s room, on some errand, I forget what. Mr.
Blount was standing, leaning on the mantelpiece, and Sir Harry was withdrawing a large key from the door of an iron safe, which seemed to be built into the wall. Each paused in the att.i.tude in which I had found him, with his eyes fixed on me, in silence. I saw that I was in their way, and said, a little flurried:
"I"ll come again; it was nothing of any consequence," and I was drawing back, when Sir Harry said, beckoning to me with his finger:
"Stay, little Ethel--stay a minute--I see no reason, Blount, why we should not tell the la.s.sie."
Mr. Blount nodded acquiescence.
"Come here, my bonny Ethel," said Sir Harry, and turning the key again in the lock, he pulled the door open. "Look in; ye see that shelf? Well, mind that"s where I"ll leave auld Harry Rokestone"s will--ye"ll remember where it lies?"
Then he drew me very kindly to him, smoothed my hair gently with his hand, and said:
"G.o.d bless you, my bonny la.s.s!" and kissed me on the forehead.
Then locking the door again, he said:
"Ye"ll mind, it"s this iron box, that"s next the picture. That"s all, la.s.sie."
And thus dismissed, I took my departure.
In this retreat, time was stealing on with silent steps. Christmas was past. Mr. Marston had returned; he lived, at this season, more at our side of the lake, and the house was more cheerful.
Can I describe Mr. Marston with fidelity? Can I rely even upon my own recollection of him? What had I become? A dreamer of dreams--a dupe of magic. Everything had grown strangely interesting--the lonely place was lonely no more--the old castle of Dorracleugh was radiant with unearthly light. Unconsciously, I had become the captive of a magician. I had pa.s.sed under a sweet and subtle mania, and was no longer myself. Little by little, hour by hour, it grew, until I was transformed. Well, behold me now, wildly in love with Richard Marston.
Looking back now on that period of my history, I see plainly enough that it was my inevitable fate. So much together, and surrounded by a solitude, we were the only young people in the little group which formed our society. Handsome and fascinating--wayward, and even wicked he might have been, but that I might hope was past--he was energetic, clever, pa.s.sionate; and of his admiration he never allowed me to be doubtful.
My infatuation had been stealing upon me, but it was not until we had reached the month of May that it culminated in a scene that returns again and again in my solitary reveries, and always with the same tumult of sweet and bitter feelings.
One day before that explanation took place, my diary, from which I have often quoted, says thus:
"May 9th.--There was no letter, I am sure, by the early post from Mr.
Marston; Sir Harry or Mr. Blount would have been sure to talk of it at breakfast. It is treating his uncle, I think, a little cavalierly.
"Sailed across the lake to-day, alone, to Cl.u.s.ted, and walked about a quarter of a mile up the forest road. How beautiful everything is looking, but how melancholy! When last I saw this haunted wood, Sir Harry Rokestone and Mr. Marston were with me.
"It seems odd that Mr. Marston stays away so long, and hard to believe that if he tried he might not have returned sooner. He went on the 28th of April, and Mr. Blount thought he would be back again in a week: that would have been on the 5th of this month. I dare say he is glad to get away for a little time--I cannot blame him; I dare say he finds it often very dull, say what he will. I wonder what he meant, the other day, when he said he was "born to be liked least where he loved most"? He seems very melancholy. I wonder whether there has been some old love and parting? Why, unless he liked some one else, should he have quarrelled with Sir Harry, rather than marry as he wished him? Sir Harry would not have chosen any one for him who was not young and good-looking. I heard him say something one morning that showed his opinion upon that point; and young men, who don"t like any one in particular, are easily persuaded to marry. Well, perhaps his constancy will be rewarded; it is not likely that the young lady should have given him up.
"May 10th.--How shall I begin? What have I done? Heaven forgive me if I have done wrong! Oh! kind, true friend, Sir Harry, how have I requited you? It is too late now--the past is past. And yet, in spite of this, how happy I am!
"Let me collect my thoughts, and write down as briefly as I can an outline of the events of this happy, agitating day. No lovelier May day was ever seen. I was enjoying a lonely saunter, about one o"clock, under the boughs of Lynder Wood, here and there catching the gleam of the waters through the trees, and listening from time to time to the call of the cuckoo from the hollows of the forest. In that lonely region there is no more lonely path than this.
"On a sudden, I heard a step approaching fast from behind me on the path, and, looking back, I saw Mr. Marston coming on, with a very glad smile, to overtake me. I stopped; I felt myself blushing. He was speaking as he approached: I was confused, and do not recollect what he said; but hardly a moment pa.s.sed till he was at my side. He was smiling, but very pale. I suppose he had made up his mind to speak. He did not immediately talk of the point on which hung so much; he spoke of other things--I can recollect nothing of them.
"He began at length to talk upon that other theme that lay so near our hearts; our pace grew slower and slower as he spoke on, until we came to a stand-still under the great beech-tree, on whose bark our initials, now spread by time and touched with lichen, but possibly still legible, are carved.
"Well, he has spoken, and I have answered--I can"t remember our words; but we are betrothed in the sight of Heaven by vows that nothing can ever cancel, till those holier vows, plighted at the altar-steps, are made before G.o.d himself, or until either shall die.
"Oh! Richard, my love, and is it true? Can it be that you love your poor Ethel with a love so tender, so deep, so desperate? He has loved me, he says, ever since he first saw me, on the day after his escape, in the garden at Malory!
"I liked him from the first. In spite of all their warnings, I could not bring myself to condemn or distrust him long. I never forgot him during the years we have been separated; he has been all over the world since, and often in danger, and I have suffered such great and unexpected changes of fortune--to think of our being brought together at last! Has not Fate ordained it?
"The only thing that darkens the perfect sunshine of to-day is that our attachment and engagement must be a secret. He says so, and I am sure he knows best. He says that Sir Harry has not half forgiven him yet, and that he would peremptorily forbid our engagement. He could unquestionably effect our separation, and make us both inexpressibly miserable. But when I look at Sir Harry"s kind, melancholy face, and think of all he has done for me, my heart upbraids me, and to-night I had to turn hastily away, for my eyes filled suddenly with tears."
CHAPTER LVII.
AN AWKWARD PROPOSAL.
I will here make a few extracts more from my diary, because they contain matters traced there merely in outline, and of which it is more convenient to present but a skeleton account.
"May 11th.--Richard went early to his farm to-day. I told him last night that I would come down to see him off this morning. But he would not hear of it; and again enjoined the strictest caution. I must do nothing to induce the least suspicion of our engagement, or even of our caring for each other. I must not tell Rebecca Torkill a word about it, nor hint it to any one of the few friends I correspond with. I am sure he is right; but this secrecy is very painful. I feel so treacherous, and so sad, when I see Sir Harry"s kind face.
"Richard was back at three o"clock; we met by appointment, in the same path, in Lynder Wood. He has told ever so much, of which I knew nothing before. Mr. Blount told him, he says, that Sir Harry means to leave me an annuity of two hundred a year. How kind and generous! I feel more than ever the pain and meanness of my reserve. He intends to leave Richard eight hundred a year, and the farm at the other side of the lake. Richard thinks, if he had not displeased him, he would have done more for him. All this, that seems to me very n.o.ble, depends, however, upon his continuing to like us, as he does at present. Richard says that he will settle everything he has in the world upon me. It hurts me, his thinking me so mercenary, and talking so soon upon the subject of money and settlements; I let him see this, for the idea of his adding to what my benefactor Sir Harry intended for me had not entered my mind.
""It is just, my darling, because you are so little calculating for yourself that I must look a little forward for you," he said, and so tenderly. "Whose business is it now to think of such things for you, if not mine? And you won"t deny me the pleasure of telling you that I can prevent, thank Heaven, some of the dangers you were so willing to encounter for my sake."
"Then he told me that the bulk of Sir Harry"s property is to go to people not very nearly related to him, called Strafford; and he gave me a great charge not to tell a word of all this to a living creature, as it would involve him in a quarrel with Mr. Blount, who had told him Sir Harry"s intentions under the seal of secrecy.