Part 13 (1/2)

”Stay where you are, I order you,” said the father. ”I will have no temporizing until the matter grows cold. I will speak now; do you hear.

Now, listen.”

She was subdued, and knew what was coming. She sat down, and waited.

Had he looked in her face, instead of in the fire, he would have seen an expression there which he would little have liked--a smile of obstinacy and self-will.

”I am not going to mince matters, and beat about the bush, Mary,” he began. ”What I say I mean, and will have it attended to. You are very intimate with young Hawker, and that intimacy is very displeasing to me.”

”Well?” she said.

”Well,” he answered. ”I say it is not well. I will not have him here.”

”You are rather late, father,” she said. ”He has had the run of this house these six months. You should have spoken before.”

”I speak now, miss,” said the Vicar, succeeding in working himself into a pa.s.sion, ”and that is enough. I forbid him the house, now!”

”You had better tell him so, father. I won't.”

”I daresay you won't,” said the Vicar. ”But I have told him so already this morning.”

”You have!” she cried. ”Father, you had no right to do that. You encouraged him here. And now my love is given, you turn round and try to break my heart.”

”I never encouraged him. You all throw that in my face. You have no natural affection, girl. I always hated the man. And now I have heard things about him sufficient to bar him from any honest man's house.”

”Unjust!” she said. ”I will never believe it.”

”I daresay you won't,” said the Vicar. ”Because you don't want to. You are determined to make my life miserable. There was Jim Stockbridge.

Such a n.o.ble, handsome, gentlemanly young fellow, and nothing would please you but to drive him wild, till he left the country. Now, go away, and mind what I have said. You mean to break my heart, I see.”

She turned as she was going out. ”Father,” she said, ”is James Stockbridge gone?”

”Yes; gone. Sailed a fortnight ago. And all your doing. Poor boy, I wonder where he is now.”

Where is he now? Under the cliffs of Madeira. Standing on the deck of a brave s.h.i.+p, beneath a rustling cloud of canvas, watching awe-struck that n.o.ble island, like an aerial temple, brown in the lights, blue in the shadows, floating between a sapphire sea and an azure sky. Far aloft in the air is Ruivo, five thousand feet overhead, father of the great ridges and sierras that run down jagged and abrupt, till they end in wild surf-washed promontories. He is watching a mighty glen that pierces the mountain, dark with misty shadows. He is watching the waterfalls that stream from among the vineyards into the sea below, and one long white monastery, perched up among the crags above the highway of the world.

Borne upon the full north wind, the manhood and intelligence of Europe goes past, day by day, in white winged s.h.i.+ps. And above all, unheeding, century after century, the old monks have vegetated there, saying their ma.s.ses, and ringing their chapel bells, high on the windy cliff.

Chapter IX

WHEN THE KYE CAME HAME.

And when Mary had left the room, the Vicar sat musing before the fire in his study. ”Well,” said he to himself, ”she took it quieter than I thought she would. Now, I can't blame myself. I think I have shown her that I am determined, and she seems inclined to be dutiful. Poor dear girl, I am very sorry for her. There is no doubt she has taken a fancy to this handsome young scamp. But she must get over it. It can't be so very serious as yet. At all events I have done my duty, though I can't help saying that I wish I had spoken before things went so far.”

The maid looked in timidly, and told him that breakfast was ready. He went into the front parlour, and there he found his sister making tea.

She looked rather disturbed, and, as the Vicar kissed her, he asked her ”where was Mary?”

”She is not well, brother,” she answered. ”She is going to stay upstairs; I fear something has gone wrong with her.”