Heriot's Choice Part 41

For two years the sad groping after truth, the mute search for vocation, the conflict between duty and inclination, had continued, and still the grave, stern face, kindly but impressive, has given no clue to his future plans. 'I will tell you when I know myself, father,' was his parting speech more than once. 'I trust you, Cardie, and I am content to wait,' was ever his father's answer.

But deliverance came at last, when the fetters fell off the n.o.ble young soul, when every word in the letter that reached Mr. Lambert spoke of the new-born gladness that filled his son's heart; there was no reticence.

'You trusted me and you were content to wait then; how often I have repeated these words to myself, dear father; you have waited, and now your patience shall be rewarded.

'Father, at last I know myself and my own mind; the last wave of doubt and fear has rolled off me; I can see it all now, I feel sure. I write it tremblingly. I feel sure that it is all true.

'Oh, how good G.o.d has been to me! I feel almost like the prodigal; only no husks could have satisfied me for a moment; it was only the truth I wanted--truth literal and divine; and, father, you have no reason to think sadly of me any longer, for "before eventide my light has come."'

'I am writing now to tell you that it is my firm and unalterable intention to carry out your and my mother's wishes with respect to my profession; will you ask my friends not to seek to dissuade me, especially my friends at Kirkleatham? You know how sorely inclination has already tempted me; believe me, I have counted the cost and weighed the whole matter calmly and dispa.s.sionately. I have much to relinquish--many favourite pursuits, many secret ambitions--but shall I give what costs me nothing? and after all I am only thankful that I am not considered too unworthy for the work.'

It was this letter, so humble and so manly, that filled Olive's brown eyes with light and lifted the weight from her heart. Cardie had not disappointed her; he had been true to himself and his own convictions.

Mildred alone had her misgivings; when she next saw Richard, she thought that he looked worn and pale, and even fancied his cheerfulness was a little forced; and his admission that he had slept badly for two or three nights so filled her with alarm that she determined to speak to him at all costs.

His composed and devout demeanour at service next morning, however, a little comforted her, and she was hesitating whether the change in him might be her own fancy, when Richard himself broke the ice by an abrupt question as they were walking towards Musgrave that same afternoon.

'What is all this about Ethel Trelawny, Aunt Milly?'

And Mildred absolutely started at his tone, it was suppressed and yet so eager.

'She will not return to Kirkleatham for some weeks, Richard; she and her father are visiting in Scotland.'

Richard turned very pale.

'It is true, then, Aunt Milly?'

'What is true?'

'That she is engaged to that man?'

'To Sir Robert Ferrers? What! have you heard of that? No, indeed, Richard, she has refused him most decidedly; why he is old enough to be her father!'

'That is no objection with some women. Are you sure? They are not in Renfrewshire, then?'

'They have never been there; they are staying with friends near Ballater. Why, Richard, what is this?' as Richard stopped as though he were giddy and covered his face with his hands.

'I never meant you or any one to know,' he gasped at length, while Mildred watched his varying colour with alarm; 'but I have not been able to sleep since I heard, and the suddenness of the relief--oh! are you quite sure, Aunt Milly?' with a painful eagerness in his tone very strange to hear in grave, self-contained Richard.

'Dear Cardie, let there be full confidence between us; you see you have unwittingly betrayed yourself.'

'Yes, I have betrayed myself,' he muttered with increasing agitation; 'what a fool you must think me, Aunt Milly, and all because I could not put a question quietly; but I was not prepared for your answer; what a consummate----'

'Hush, don't call yourself names. I knew your secret long ago, Cardie. I knew what friends you and Ethel Trelawny were.'

A boyish flush suffused his face.

'Ethel is very fond of her old playmate.'

He winced as though with sudden pain.

'Ah, that is just it, Aunt Milly; she is fond of me and nothing else.'

'I like her name for you, Coeur-de-Lion, it sounds so musical from her lips; you are her friend, Richard; she trusts you implicitly.'

'I believe--I hope she does;' but drawing his hand again before his eyes, 'I am too young, Aunt Milly. I was only one-and-twenty last month.'

'True, and Sir Robert was nearly fifty; she refused a fine estate there.'

'Was her father angry with her?'

'Not so terribly incensed as he was about Mr. Cathcart the year before.

Mr. Cathcart had double his fortune and was a young, good-looking man. I was almost afraid that in her misery she should be driven to marry him.'

'He has no right to persecute her so; why should he be so anxious to get rid of his only child?'

'That is what we all say. Poor Ethel, hers is no light cross. I am thankful she is beginning to take it patiently; the loss of a father's love must be dreadful, and hers is a proud spirit.'

'But not now; you said yourself, Aunt Milly, how n.o.bly she behaved in that last affair.'

'True,' continued Mildred in a sorrowful tone; 'all the more that she was inclined to succ.u.mb to a momentary fascination; but I am certain that with all his intellect Mr. Cathcart would have been a most undesirable husband for her; Sir Robert Ferrers is far preferable.'

'Aunt Milly!'

'Yes, Richard, and I told her so; but her only answer was that she would not marry where she could not love. I am afraid this will widen the breach between her and her father; her last letter was very sad.'

'It is tyranny, downright persecution; how dares he. Oh, Aunt Milly!' in a tone of deep despondency, 'if I were only ten years older.'

'I am afraid you are very young, Cardie. I wish you had not set your heart on this.'

'Yes, we are too much of an age; but she need not fear, I am older in everything than she; there is nothing boyish about me, is there, Aunt Milly?'

'Not in your love for Ethel, I am afraid; but, Cardie, what would her father say if he knew it?'

'He will know it some day. Look here, Aunt Milly, I am one-and-twenty now, and I have loved Ethel, Miss Trelawny I mean, since I was a boy of twelve; people may laugh, but I felt for my old playmate something of what I feel now. She was always different from any one else in my eyes.

I remember telling my mother when I was only ten that Ethel should be my wife.'

'But, Richard----'

'I know what you are going to say--that it is all hopeless moonshine, that a curate with four or five hundred a year has no right to presume to Mr. Trelawny's heiress; that is what he and the world will tell me; but how am I to help loving her?'

'What am I to say to you, Cardie? Long before you are your father's curate Ethel may have met the man she can love.'

'Then I shall bear my trouble, I hope, manfully. Don't you think this is my one dread, that and being so young in her eyes? How little she knew how she tempted me when she told me I ought to distinguish myself at the Bar; I felt as though it were giving her up when I decided on taking orders.'

'She would call you a veritable Coeur-de-Lion if she knew. Oh! my poor boy, how hardly this has gone with you,' as Richard's face whitened again with emotion.

'It has been terribly hard,' he returned, almost inaudibly; 'it was not so much at last reluctance and fear of the work as the horrible dread of losing her by my own act. I thought--it was foolish and young of me, I daresay--but I thought that as people spoke of my capabilities I might in time win a position that should be worthy even of her. Oh, Aunt Milly! what a fool you must think me.'