Part 12 (1/2)

”You had better go home, Vicar,” said the Doctor; ”you will make yourself ill staying here. I do not expect another lucid interval.”

”No,” said the Vicar, ”I feel it my duty to stay longer. For my own sake too. What he has let out bears fearfully on my happiness, Doctor.”

”Yes, I can understand that, my friend, from what I have heard of the relations that exist between your daughter and that young man. You have been saved from a terrible misfortune, though at the cost, perhaps, of a few tears, and a little temporary uneasiness.”

”I hope it may be as you say,” said the Vicar. ”Strange, only to-day Major Buckley was urging me to stop that acquaintance.”

”I should have ventured to do so too, Vicar, had I been as old a friend of yours as Major Buckley.”

”He is not such a very old friend,” said the Vicar; ”only of two years'

standing, yet I seem to have known him ten.”

At daybreak the man died, and made no sign. So as soon as they had satisfied themselves of the fact, they departed, and came out together into the clear morning air. The rain-clouds had broken, though when they had scrambled up out of the narrow little valley where the cottage stood, they found that the wind was still high and fierce, and that the sun was rising dimly through a yellow haze of driving scud.

They stepped out briskly, revived by the freshness of all around, and had made about half the distance home, when they descried a horseman coming slowly towards them. It seemed an early time for any one to be abroad, and their surprise was increased at seeing that it was George Hawker returning home.

”Where can he have been so early?” said the Doctor.

”So late, you mean,” said the Vicar; ”he has not been home all night.

Now I shall brace up my nerves and speak to him.”

”My good wishes go with you, Vicar,” said the Doctor, and walked on, while the other stopped to speak with George Hawker.

”Good morning, Mr. Thornton. You are early a-foot, sir.”

”Yes, I have been sitting up all night with old Jewel. He is dead.”

”Is he indeed, sir,” said Hawker. ”He won't be much loss, sir, to the parish. A sort of happy release, one may say, for every one but himself.”

”Can I have the pleasure of a few words with you, Mr. Hawker?”

”Surely, sir,” said he, dismounting. ”Allow me to walk a little on the way back with you?”

”What I have to say, Mr. Hawker,” said the Vicar, ”is very short, and, I fear, also very disagreeable to all parties. I am going to request you to discontinue your visits to my house altogether, and, in fact, drop our acquaintance.”

”This is very sudden, sir,” said Hawker. ”Am I to understand, sir, that you cannot be induced by any conduct of mine to reconsider this decision?”

”You are to understand that such is the case, sir.”

”And this is final, Mr. Thornton?”

”Quite final, I a.s.sure you,” said the Vicar; ”nothing on earth should make me flinch from my decision.”

”This is very unfortunate, sir,” said George. ”For I had reason to believe that you rather encouraged my visits than otherwise.”

”I never encouraged them. It is true I permitted them. But since then circ.u.mstances have come to my ears which render it imperative that you should drop all communication with the members of my family, more especially, to speak plainly, with my daughter.”

”At least, sir,” said George, ”let me know what charge you bring against me.”

”I make no charges of any sort,” replied the Vicar. ”All I say is, that I wish the intercourse between you and my daughter to cease; and I consider, sir, that when I say that, it ought to be sufficient. I conceive that I have the right to say so much without question.”