Part 60 (1/2)

”I give it up,” said Richard.

”But you might hold it, and give friend Humphrey here a great deal of trouble.”

”Mr Mervyn, I claim to be still a gentleman, whatever my birth,” said Richard, haughtily. ”Will you act as Humphrey's friend?”

”I will.”

”Then understand this, sir. I have had a hard fight, and I have come through the temptation, I hope, like a man. I now resign everything to Mr Humphrey Trevor here. I ask his pardon for usurping his rights, and I beg his forbearance towards my poor father and mother. I will not make this cruel injury to him worse by any opposition.”

Humphrey shuffled in his seat, and tried to speak, but he only wiped his damp face, and looked helplessly at the man he was bound to oust.

”You see, Mr Mervyn,” continued Richard, ”Mr Trevor's will be a peculiar position.”

”Yes,” said Mervyn; ”but had you not better get some legal advice?”

”What for?” said Richard. ”Can anything be plainer? As I said, Mr Trevor's will be a peculiar position. He will be the mark of the designing, and he will need a staunch friend at his side. Will you be that friend?”

”I will,” said Mervyn, wringing his hand. ”Yours too, my dear fellow, if you'll let me. But,” he added, in a whisper, ”Miss Rea?”

A spasm of pain shot across Richard's face, and he was about to speak when Humphrey turned to him.

”Master Richard,” he said, in a husky voice, ”we was boys together, and played together almost like brothers. This here comes to me stunning, like. You say it's mine. Well, it aint my fault. I don't want it.

Keep it all, if you like; if not, let's share and share alike.”

The last words fell on empty air, for Richard had waved his hand to both, and hurried out of the room.

That evening, with beating heart, he walked towards Tolcarne gates. He had been busy amongst his papers, tearing up and making ready for that which he had to do on the morrow; and now, more agitated than he would own, he sought the lane where so many happy hours had been spent to see if Tiny Rea would grant him the interview he had written to ask for, that he might say good-bye.

It was a soft, balmy night, and the stars seemed to look sadly down through the trees as he leaned against a ma.s.s of lichen-covered granite, pink here and there with the pretty stonecrop of the place, waiting, for she was behind time.

”Will she come,” he said, ”now that I am a beggar without a s.h.i.+lling, save that which I could earn? Oh, shame! shame! shame! How could I doubt her?”

No, he would not doubt her; she could not have cared about his money.

She was too sweet and loving and gentle. And what should he say--wait?

No, he dared not. He could only--only--leave her free, that she might--

”Oh, my darling!” he groaned; and he laid his broad forehead upon the hard, rugged stone, weeping now like a child.

The clouds came across the sky, blotting out one by one the glistening stars; a chilly mist swept along the valley from the sea, and all around was dark and cold as the future of his blasted life. For the minutes glided into hours, and she came not--came not to say one gentle, loving word--one G.o.d-speed to send him on his way; and at last, heart-broken, he staggered to the great floral gate, held the chilly rails, kissed the iron, and gazed with pa.s.sionate longing up at the now darkened house, and then walked slowly away, stunned by the violence of his grief.

The wind was rising fast, and coming in heavy soughs from off the sea.

As he reached the lodge gates at Penreife he paused, staring before him in a helpless way, till a heavy squall smote him, and with it a sharp shower of rain, whose drops seemed to cool his forehead and rouse him to action.

Starting off, with great strides, he took the short cut, and made for the sea, where the fields ended suddenly, their short, thyme-scented gra.s.s seeming to have been cut where there was a fall of full four hundred feet, down past a rugged, piled-up wall of granite, to the white-veined rock, polished by the restless sea below. To any one unaccustomed to the coast a walk there on a dark night meant death, either by mutilation on the cruel rocks, always seeming to be studded with great gouts of crimson blood, where the sea anemones clung in hundreds, or else by drowning in the deep, clear water, when the tide was up, and the waves played amidst the long, chocolate strands of fucus and bladder-wrack, waving to and fro.

It was going to be a wild night, but it seemed in keeping with the chaos of his mind. Far out on the sea, softly rising to and fro in the thick darkness, were the lights of the fis.h.i.+ng-boats, as a score or so lay drifting with their herring-nets; and in his heart there was not a rough fisher there whose lot he did not envy.

”And she could not come!” he groaned, as he stood there, with bare head.

”Oh, my love--my love! To go without one gentle word, far, far away, and but yesterday so happy!”