Part 55 (1/2)
”I quite agree with Beatrice,” cried Rebecca. ”It is time we left you, Henry, to the devices and desires of your own heart.”
The vicar was stern of aspect now, as he paced the library, and hot words of anger were upon his lips, but he stayed them there, and looked from face to face as if seeking sympathy where there was none.
He knew that his sisters were right, and that in following out the dictates of his own heart he would gladly ask Hazel Thorne to be his wife; but he was weak, and the more so that she had given him no hope.
His was not the nature that would have made him a martyr to his faith; neither could he be one for his unrequited love. He loved Hazel Thorne; but she did not care for him--he could see it plainly enough; and even had she loved him in return, he was not one who could have braved public opinion for her sake. For the trouble connected with that money was always in his mind. Then there was the society to which he belonged.
What would they say if he, the Reverend Henry Lambent, Master of Arts, and on visiting terms with the highest county families, were to enter into a matrimonial alliance with the daughter of a bankrupt stockbroker--one who was only the new mistress!
Then there were his sisters. If he married Hazel, always supposing she would accept him, he should have to break with them; and this he was too weak to do. In imagination he had been the stern ruler of Plumton All Saints' Vicarage for many years, and head of the parish. But it was a mistake: the real captain had been Beatrice, his younger sister; and Rebecca, though the elder, had been first lieutenant. The vicar had only been a private in the ranks.
”Now we are upon this theme,” Beatrice went on, ”it would be better, Henry, that the unpleasant feeling that has existed should come to an end.”
”Surely there has been no unpleasant feeling between us,” said the vicar.
”I quite agree with Beatrice--unpleasant feeling,” said Rebecca.
”We are sisters and brother,” continued Beatrice, ”and we must remain so.”
”Most a.s.suredly,” said the vicar, smiling.
”I am speaking for Rebecca as well as for myself, then, Henry, when I tell you that we have concluded that the only way in which our old happy relations can be continued will be by separating.”
”Parting?” said the vicar, in dismay.
”Yes, Henry; by parting. Rebecca and I have a sufficiency, by clubbing together our slender resources, to enable us to live a life of content.
A life of usefulness, we fear, will no longer be within our reach, for we shall have to leave our poor behind. But that we must be resigned to lose, for it is time, Henry, that we left you free and were--”
”No longer a tax upon you and an obstacle in the path of your inclinations,” said Rebecca.
”But surely--you do not mean--you would not leave the Vicarage?”
”We have carefully weighed the matter over, Henry,” said Rebecca, ”and I do not see how, under the circ.u.mstances, you could wish us to do otherwise.”
”No, no, it is impossible!” cried the vicar, who seemed deeply moved.
”Beatrice--Rebecca, of what are you thinking?”
”Of our duty and your happiness,” said Beatrice firmly.
”At the expense of your own,” exclaimed the vicar.
”We must do our duty,” said Rebecca with a sigh, and the sisters rose and left the room, like clever diplomatists, content with the impression they had made, and feeling that by a bold stroke they had completely riveted their old mastery.
CHAPTER FORTY TWO.
BAD NEWS.
The news of Hazel Thorne's imprisonment, for it could be called little else, was not long in reaching Ardley, and Mrs Canninge watched her son's countenance to see what effect it had. There had been an increasing coolness between mother and son, and it seemed as if it were rapidly approaching estrangement. Their old affectionate intercourse had given place to a chilling politeness, and though, time after time, in the bitter annoyance she felt, Mrs Canninge had felt disposed to ask her son how soon it would be necessary for her to vacate her position of mistress of the old hall, she had never been guilty of the meanness, but waited her time.
”He shall never marry her,” she said over and over again; and in spite of her better self, the news of the money trouble had been like balm to her wounded spirit. Now, then, the tidings of Hazel's visit to the sick child had come, and again, in spite of herself, she felt a sensation akin to satisfaction, for this seemed as if it might act as a safeguard to her son.