Virgie's Inheritance Part 7

"Thank you," responded Mr. Abbot, courteously, and then added, gravely: "I do not need to remind you, I am sure, that as a father I am often anxious regarding my daughter's future, and for this reason I feel compelled to ask you that which, under other circ.u.mstances I should not feel at liberty to ask. Will you tell me who you are?"

"My name, Mr. Abbot, is--William Heath," the young man began, looking thoughtful; then seemed to hesitate to go on.

"Is that all that you have to tell me about yourself?" the invalid inquired, with some dignity, and attentively studying the face opposite him. "I knew that before," he went on, a suspicion of sarcasm in his tone, "but I have long felt that there was something of mystery connected with the circ.u.mstances of your being here. It is rather extraordinary that a young man of your talent and culture should desire to locate in a rough place like this. It has been evident to me for some time that your mining operations were of secondary importance to you, for you cannot reap much if any profit. It must take nearly all you realize to pay the two men you hire to work your claim, while you lead, comparatively, a life of leisure.

My second question was regarding this--why are you here?"

William Heath lifted his frank, dark eyes, and looked straight into the face of his host, and said, in a low tone, but with an earnestness which betrayed that he felt he had much at stake:

"Mr. Abbot, I will answer your last question first, as frankly as you have asked it, though, no doubt, you will be greatly surprised, and perhaps startled, by my reply. I am here simply and solely to try and win Virginia Abbot for my wife."

Mr. Abbot sat erect, looking astonished indeed at this astounding statement, and a spot of deep red settled in each hollow cheek.

"What can you mean? You never saw her until three months ago!" he said, excitedly.

"True, I never saw her until that wild, stormy night when I came to you a weary, dripping traveler and you so kindly extended to me your hospitality. But I began to love your daughter that very evening. I do not need to tell you that she is beautiful, for you know it; but to me she seemed the fairest woman that I had ever seen; her presence moved me as I had never been moved before, and I felt as if I could hardly go on to join my friends and leave her. But I suddenly found a pretext for returning when you mentioned that you desired to dispose of your claim. I resolved that I would become the purchaser. I would come here and remain to study the character of your daughter, and if she proved all that I fancied her, I would strive to win her for my wife. This, my dear sir, is why I am here; and now--will you give her to me?"

"Have you said anything to Virgie about this?" Mr. Abbot asked, looking very grave.

"No, sir; I have not breathed a word of my intentions to her; but I accepted her invitation to tea this evening with the determination to tell you this, if I could make the opportunity, and ask your sanction to my suit before speaking to her."

Mr. Abbot looked gratified.

"That was honorable of you," he said. "It meets my estimate of your character."

"Thank you, sir," Mr. Heath returned, flushing slightly, then continued: "I am not given much to rhapsody or extravagances of language, but I know that I can never be a happy man unless I win Virgie, and if you will give her to me, I promise most solemnly to devote my life to her happiness."

"Is William Heath your true name?" Mr. Abbot questioned, determined to know all about him before committing himself.

"Yes, sir. I hope you do not think I have been masquerading under a false name," returned the young man, a quick flush mantling his cheek.

"Pardon me; but you must remember that I could not account for your being here, and--and I was a little suspicious, I own, that you were not quite what you pretended to be," said the invalid, apologetically, and yet regarding him keenly.

The flush on William Heath's face deepened. He looked very thoughtful for a moment, then said:

"Mr. Abbot, you have read between the lines better than I thought. I would have preferred to remain plain William Heath to every one until after I had won my love; but perhaps I had better be perfectly frank with you. I am not an American."

"I thought so," returned his companion, quietly.

"Did you?" asked the young man, looking surprised. "I compliment you upon your penetration then, for I have pa.s.sed for one of your countrymen almost everywhere since coming to this country."

"I think you are an Englishman," said Mr. Abbot.

"I am, sir. I have an estate called Heathdale in the county of Hampshire, England. I own another in Surrey. Mr. Abbot, I am an English baronet, and I have simply been a visitor and traveler in this country during the last year."

"You, an English baronet!" exclaimed Mr. Abbot, excitedly, a vivid flush suffusing his face, then quickly receding, leaving him deadly pale.

"Yes, sir; but, pray believe me, I had no intention of boasting of either my wealth or t.i.tle," observed the young man modestly.

"Oh!" sighed the sick man. "I am afraid then that you can never marry Virgie."

"Sir! Why not? What is there in what I have told you to debar me from making your daughter my wife? I should suppose you would feel that I have it in my power to make her all the happier on account of it."

"But you do not know, you cannot understand, you English are so proud, so tenacious of honor and caste. Ah, my poor child!" Mr. Abbot cried, incoherently, and appearing greatly agitated and distressed.

"I am sure, my friend, I cannot comprehend this excessive emotion," Sir William--as we shall call him henceforth--remarked.

"Would you be willing to marry a woman whose name is irretrievably linked with disgrace?" Mr. Abbot asked, while cold perspiration started out upon his forehead, and his face was almost convulsed with his anguish of mind.

He knew that Virgie had grown to love this man. He was conscious of the pride and prejudices of the English aristocracy, and he believed that when he should tell the story of his life, as he knew it was only right he should do, Sir William Heath would no longer care to make his daughter his wife, and her heart would be broken.

Sir William looked up, startled at this question, his own face paling suddenly.

"Surely, Mr. Abbot, you cannot mean anything so bad as that," he replied, in a low, pained tone.

"I will tell you all about it," said the sick man, "and then you must decide for yourself whether you are still willing to wed the daughter of a dishonored man. Of course you have seen from the beginning of your acquaintance with us that no pleasure or profit that might accrue to us from this kind of a life could ever reconcile us to it; that only some terrible misfortune could have driven me and my beautiful darling into such a wild and desolate region as this."

"Yes; I have felt that there was something mysterious in your being here--some secret reason why you should have shut yourselves away from all comfort and civilization," Sir William admitted, as his companion paused for strength to go on. "But I have never attributed it to any willful wrong on your part."

"Thank you for your faith in me," returned Mr. Abbot, gratefully. "I only wish the world at large was as charitable; if it had been, I need not have been here now, on the verge of the grave, nor been obliged to doom my lonely child to a life of exile, when everything should be at the brightest for her; neither should we have been obliged to disown a name which, until recently had always been an honored and respected one".

"Then your name is not Abbot," said Sir William.

"Yes, but that is not the whole of it; I will, however, confide that to you later. But of course I tell you this in strictest confidence; whatever your decision may be after you hear my story, I charge you not to betray me to any one."

"You may trust me," said the young man, quietly.

"Then draw your chair closer, for not even Virgie knows the very worst, and I would not make her burden any heavier when there is no need."

The young baronet did as he was requested, but he looked both troubled and pale, for he knew not how this story might affect his future prospects. He was not different from his kind in some points; he belonged to an old and honored family; no shadow had ever tarnished their fair fame; he was proud and tenacious of honor, and his heart was heavy with apprehension as he thought that he might be about to hear some story of crime or wrong that would forever separate him from the woman whom he had learned to idolize.

Mr. Abbot leaned nearer his companion, and in a low voice gave him a brief and rapid account of his life and the adverse fate that had served to banish him to the spa.r.s.ely populated mountains of Nevada. It was a strange, sad story of sin, and wrong, and shame, in which a complication of evidence and circ.u.mstances had permitted the real offender to escape justice and another to suffer the consequences of his crime.

Sir William Heath never once moved or spoke during its recital, but his fine face expressed pain, and sorrow, and sympathy throughout, and when at length it was finished he still sat for several minutes in his chair, exhausted and panting from weariness and excitement.

At last the young man turned to his companion, a great pity and tenderness shining in his fine, clear eyes.

"Mr. Abbot," he said, "you have told me one of the saddest stories that I have ever known, and I can find nothing but sympathy and regret for you in my heart. You have been but the victim of an atrocious wrong--no stain rests upon your character, if there appears to be upon your name, and so I ask you again, will you give me your daughter, if I find that I have been so fortunate as to have won her love? What you have related to me can never make any difference in my feelings toward her, and since I shall take her to another country, where nothing of this will ever be known or cast a shadow upon her future, as Lady Heath she will be honored and respected, and I trust, happy."

Tears welled up into the eyes of the invalid as he listened to the words of this true, earnest lover.

"G.o.d bless you for a n.o.ble, royal hearted man!" he exclaimed, reaching forward and clasping the young baronet's hand. "Yes, I can say G.o.d bless you now--for you have taught me to believe there is an Infinite Father and I can reverently invoke His benediction upon you. Of course I will give you Virgie and feel that she is richly blessed in having won such a husband and thus I can die with not a care upon my heart."

"You have given me the richest boon that it is in my power to crave,"

returned Sir William, his face kindling with happiness. "But you need not speak of dying. A sea voyage would prolong your life. Come with me at once to England and to Heathdale where you shall have every comfort and attention, and the change will do you good."

A sad smile flitted over Mr. Abbot's wan features.

"It is too late," he said, sorrowfully. "I shall not live through another month; but my mind is at ease and it will be a restful season--the little time that I am spared. No, I shall never leave this place, but I have a request to make of you."