CHAPTER XXVIII

ONE DAY'S RESPITE

The sun has risen upon the last day which I shall spend on earth; and I sit down calmly to write all that happened to me yesterday, and my reason for the step which I am about to take.

It is a fair still morning, and the birds are singing gaily in the grove. My window is open, and the early freshness of the autumnal air is filling the room. For hours I have been on my bed there, hot and restless, praying for the dawn, that I might carry out my purpose; and as soon as the first faint gleam of light in the east broke through the dark night clouds, I arose and bathed my eyes and sat down here to wait. I have watched the sun rise up from the ocean, slowly gathering strength until its first quivering beams glanced across the dull gray sea, and even penetrated into my chamber. And with the dawn has come peace. I sit here calm and prepared for the trial to come.

It was the evening before yesterday when I saw my uncle's face pressed against the window pane, and fainted with the shock. Early on the following morning a note from him was brought up to me, having been left by a messenger from the village. Here it is:—

"My Beloved Margharita,—Many a time have I reproached myself for my imprudence last night, and the effects which I fear it had upon you. It was thoughtless and rash of me to come near the house at all; but, indeed, I meant only to watch from a safe distance; only, as I crouched behind a shrub upon the lawn, I saw her face, and the sight drew me nearer against my better judgment. I met your eyes, and I knew that you were overcome with fright; but I feared to linger lest they might ask what it was that alarmed you, and seek for me. And although I fancy that I am altered past recognition, yet I would run no risks.

"I, too, had a great surprise, Margharita. You will not wonder what I mean by that when I tell you that in the light which streamed from the uncurtained window everything in the room was distinctly visible to me. Was I dreaming, child, or were you indeed assenting to the embrace of the man whose arms were surely around you? Him, I could not see, for his back was turned to the window; but will you laugh at me, I wonder, if I tell you that I felt strangely jealous of him. I am a foolish old man, Margharita, but all the love of my heart is yours, and I had begun almost to look upon you—in my thoughts—as my own child. I cannot bear the thought of giving you up to any one. You will not think me very, very selfish. I have only a few more months to live, and I know that you will not grudge that much out of your future, that you will stay by me to the end. Afterwards, I have no wish save for your happiness; and although I must confess that I had hoped you might have married one of the sons of our own country, still it is you who must choose, and I owe you, or shall owe you soon, too great a debt to press upon you any desire of mine which is not at one with your wishes. But tell me this—Is he an Englishman? Alas! I fear so. Send me a word by the bearer, and tell me; tell me, too, of what family he is, and whether he is noble. But of that I feel already assured, if he be indeed the man to whom your love is given.

"You must surely have sustained a shock at my sudden and rash appearance. Doubtless you wonder at seeing me here at all. I could not keep away. I must have news day by day, almost hour by hour. It is all that keeps me alive. I must be near to feel that I am breathing the same air as the woman on whom a long-delayed vengeance is about to fall.

"I have taken a furnished cottage on the outskirts of this village, and a little more than a mile from Mallory Grange. But do not come to me. Dearly as I would love to have you talk to me, and hear from your own lips that all goes well, yet at present it were better not. I will devise some means of communication, and let you know of it shortly. I am living here as Mr. Angus.—Yours ever,

"L. M."

I folded up this letter with a shudder, and sitting down dashed off my reply. It is here:—

"My dear Uncle,—I am a culprit—a miserable, pleading culprit. It is true that I love an Englishman—the man who was standing by my side last night; and it is true that he has asked me to marry him. But I have not told him so, and I have not promised to marry him. That is not all of my confession. Not only is he an Englishman, but his name is Lord Lumley St. Maurice, and he is—her son.

"Now you know the terrible trouble I am in. Last night he was telling me of his love, and assuring me of his mother's sanction and approval, when your face appeared at the window. Can you wonder at my start, and that I fainted? Can you wonder that I sit here, after a sleepless night, with eyes that are dim and a heart that has become a stone? I dread to stir from the room. My position is horrible. I have tried my utmost to avoid him, to treat him with disdain, to send him away from me. I have steeled my heart and clothed my face with frowns—in vain! The bald fact remains that I love him. Do you despise me, uncle? Sometimes I feel that I deserve it; but I have suffered, I am suffering now. I am punished. Do not add your anger to my load!

"Immediately you get this, sit down and write to me. Write to me just what is in your heart. Your words I shall set before me as my law. Do not delay, and, if you blame, do not fail to pity me.—Yours ever unchanged,

"Margharita."

I sent this letter off with a certain sense of relief, and then, finding by my watch that it was late, finished dressing hastily, and went down into the schoolroom. Instead of my pupil, Lord Lumley was there lounging in my low basket-chair, yawning over a German grammar. He sprang up as I entered, and throwing the book into a corner of the room, advanced toward me with outstretched hands.

"Margharita, you are better, dear? I have been waiting here more than an hour for you."

Then, before I could prevent him, he had kissed me. Let me be honest, though, here, at any rate. Did I really try to prevent him? I think not.

"Where is Gracie?" I asked, looking round. "And what have you done to my Ottos?"

"Gracie has gone out with the nurse," he answered, laughing, "and as for that wretched volume, well, I've got a good mind to send the rest after it. You've a nasty brain-worrying lot of lesson books here. I've been looking through them."

"One cannot teach without them. Elementary books always look tiresome, but they are indispensable."

"Not for you any longer, I'm glad to say," he remarked.

"Why not?"

He looked at me, surprised.

"Surely you don't expect to go on teaching that child?" he asked. "You are a visitor here now, and I am responsible for your entertainment. To commence with, I have invited myself to breakfast with you. The tray is here, as you perceive, and the kettle is boiling. Kindly make the tea."

I did as I was bid, with a meekness which astonished myself, and he sat opposite to me. The servant brought in the remainder of the things, and closed the door. Gracie was not coming.

"Well, how do you like the first item in my programme?" he asked, taking my hand for a moment between his. "A tête-à-tête breakfast was not a bad idea, was it?"

"Does Lady St. Maurice know?" I asked, suddenly conscious of the utter impropriety of what we were doing.

He laughed reassuringly.

"Of course she does, sweetheart. In fact, she as good as suggested it. She thinks you feel a little strange about it all, and that a long, quiet day alone with me would help you to realize matters. Accordingly, I am having a luncheon basket packed, and after breakfast we are going for a sail, just you and I. You see the sea is as calm as a duck pond this morning. Shall you like it, do you think?"

Like it! Oh! how long was this mockery to go on! How long before I could find strength to tell him the truth—that this thing could never be! I tried to tell him then, but the words died away upon my lips. I would give myself one more day. After that there must be action of some sort or other. My uncle's reply would have come, and I should know exactly what lay before me.

"I should like it, yes," I answered, looking into my lover's handsome, glowing face. "You are sure that your mother will not mind—that she approves?"

"Quite," he answered confidently. "We talked it over together for some time. To-night I am going to speak to my father. He has an inkling of it already, but he will expect me to tell him. Dearest, there is nothing to be frightened about. Why should you tremble so? You are not well?"

"I shall be better out of doors," I answered faintly. "I will get my hat, and we will start."

He rose up at once, and opened the door for me.

"Do. There must be a little pink coloring in those cheeks before we get back," he said fondly.

"Let us meet at the boat-house in a quarter of an hour. Shall you be ready by then?"

"Yes," I answered. "I will be there."