At Love's Cost Part 72

"I--am just! Oh, my dearest, my dearest!" She took his hand and laid it against her cheek, her lips. "Don't you see how much it costs me to send you away? But I must! I must! Go--oh, go now! I--I cannot bear much more!"

His hand--it shook--fell softly, tenderly on her head.

"G.o.d forgive me for the wrong I have wrought you, the tears I have caused you!" he said, hoa.r.s.ely. "Yes, I daresay you're right, and--and I'll go! Let me see you go back to the house--One kiss, the last, the last! Oh, Ida, Ida, life of my life, soul of my soul!"

He caught her to him, and she lay in his arms for a moment, her lips clung to his in one long kiss, then she tore herself away from him and fled to the house.

Stafford went on to The Woodman, where Mr. Groves was surprised, and, it need scarcely be said, overjoyed to see him. To him, the young man was still "Mr. Stafford," and he eyed him with an amazed and respectful admiration; for though Stafford had never been a weakling, he had grown so hard and muscular and altogether "fit" that Mr. Groves could not refrain from expressing his approval.

"Ah, there is nothing like roughing it, Mr. Stafford, sir," he said. "I can tell in a minute when a man's 'hard' right through, and been doing square and honest work. It seems strange to us commoner people that you gentle folks should be so fond of going through all sorts of hards.h.i.+ps and perils just for the fun of it; but, after all, it's not to be wondered at, for that's the kind of spirit that has helped Englishmen to make England what it is. But you're looking a little pale and worn to-night, sir. I've no doubt it's the want of dinner. If I'd known you'd been coming--but you know I'll do my best, sir."

He did his best, and Stafford tried to do justice to it; but it was almost impossible to eat. And he checked the almost overmastering desire to drink.

Ida had been right. He knew it, though the thought did not help to allay his bitterness. She had spoken the truth: he was still pledged to Maude. Mr. Falconer had paid the price demanded, and it was not his fault if it had failed to save Sir Stephen from ruin; the sacrifice Stafford had made had, at any rate, saved his father's good name from shame and reproach. Maude's father had performed his part of the bargain; Stafford had still to perform his. Ida was right; she had pointed out to him his duty, and if there was a spark of manliness left in him, he must do it.

He sat over the fire, close over it, as he had done in the backwoods many a night, smoking the old brier pipe that had cheered him in his hours of solitary watching, and thinking with a grim bitterness that it would have been better for him if he had been knocked on the head the night of the raid at Salisbury Plain. To be married to one woman, while he loved another with all his heart and soul: it was a cruel fate. But, cruel as it was, he had to bend to it. He would go straight to London and find Maude, redeem his promise, and save his honour.

Mr. Groves came into the room with a bottle of the port, and Stafford forced himself to show an interest in it and drink a gla.s.s or two.

"I suppose you'll be going up to the Villa to-morrow, sir?--I beg your pardon, I mean my lord; and I must apologise for not calling you so."

"Not 'my lord,'" said Stafford. "I have never used the t.i.tle, Groves.

Go up to the Villa? Why should I?" he asked, wearily. "It is closed, isn't it?"

Mr. Groves looked at him with surprise.

"No, sir. Didn't you know? Mr. Falconer bought it; and he and Miss Falconer have been staying there. She is there now."

Stafford turned away. Chance was making his hard road straight. After a sleepless night, worse even than some of the worst he had spent in Australia, and after a pretence at breakfast, he went slowly up to the Villa. Last night, as he had held Ida in his arms, something of the old brightness had come back to his face, the old light to his eyes; but he looked haggard and wan now, like a man who had barely recovered from a long and trying illness. He turned on the slope of the terrace and looked down at the lake, lying dark and sullen under a cloudy sky; and it seemed to him typical of his own life, of his own future, in which there seemed not a streak of light. A servant came to meet him. "Yes,"

he said, "Miss Falconer is in." She was in the morning-room, he thought. Stafford followed him; the man opened the door, and Stafford entered.

Maude was seated at a table writing. She did not turn her head, and he stood looking at her and seeing the record the weary months had left upon her face; and, even in his own misery, he felt some pity for her.

"Maude!" he said in a low voice.

She did not move for a moment, but looked straight before her wistfully, as if she could not trust her ears; then she turned and came towards him, with something like fear on her face. The fear broke up, as it were, and, stretching out her arms, she spoke his name--the accents of love fighting with those of doubt and a joy that dreaded its own greatness.

"Stafford! It is you!"

She pressed her hands to her heart for a moment, then she fell into his arm, half fainting.

CHAPTER XLII.

"Yes, my father bought the place," said Maude. "I asked him to do so, and he consented at once. I could not have let it pa.s.s to strangers.

You see, I had been so happy here; it was here that you asked me to be your wife. And father has offered to settle it upon us," she blushed slightly, and her eyes became downcast. "He is no longer--opposed to our marriage; he knows that I would marry you if all the world cried 'No!'"

They had been sitting talking for nearly an hour. She had recovered from the shock of his sudden presence, and was seated beside him--so close that she could touch him with her hand--calm now, but with a glow in her usually pale cheek, a light in her eyes which had been absent for many a weary month past. He had given her, mostly in answer to her eager questions, a very abbreviated account of his life in Australia; telling her less even than he had told Ida; and it is needless to remark, saying nothing of the cause of his hasty return.

"Ah, well," she said, drawing a long breath, "it is all over now, Stafford. Ah, it is good to have you back safe and sound. You are well, are you not? You look pale and thin and--and tired. But I suppose it's the journey. Yes, it is all over; you need not wander any longer; you have come back to me, have you not, Stafford? If you knew how I have missed you, how I have longed for you! And now you will settle down and take your place in the world and be happy! Do you think I shall not make you happy, Stafford? Ah, do not be afraid;" her eyes sought his and her hand stole towards his arm.

He rose and leant against the mantel-shelf.

"I only know that I am quite unworthy of you, Maude," he said, gravely.

She looked up at him and laughed.

"Are you? Who cares! Not I! _I_ only know that I love you so dearly that if you were the blackest villain to be found in fiction, it would make no difference to me."

He was filled with shame and self-reproach, and turned away his head that she might not see the shame in his eyes.

"How did you come?" she asked, presently. "If my father were only at home! You could stay with us, then."

"I am staying at The Woodman," he said.

She regarded him with some surprise.

"Last night! Late, do you mean? Did you meet, see anyone?"

There was a dawning suspicion in her eyes, and she regarded his averted face keenly; she noticed that he hesitated and seemed embarra.s.sed.

"No one you know," he replied, feeling that it was impossible for him to speak Ida's name.

"How do you know?" she asked, with a curious smile. "Who was it?"

"I met Miss Heron of Herondale," he said, trying to speak casually, and wondering what she would say, hoping fervently that she would ask no more questions.

The blood rushed to her face, her eyes flashed and her lips tightened; but she did not speak, and moved away to the window, standing there looking out, but seeing nothing. He had gone to _her_ the moment he had returned: what did it mean? But she dared not ask; for she knew instinctively how slight was the chain by which she held him. With an effort she restrained the rage, the fierce jealousy, which threatened to burst forth in violent reproaches and accusation; and after a minute or two she turned to him, outwardly calm and smiling.

"Have you made any plans, Stafford?" she asked. "My father was speaking of your return; he thought of writing to you. Dearest, there must be no reserve between us now--now that you have come back. See, I speak quite frankly. My father thinks--thinks that our marriage should take place at once. He has withdrawn his objection, and--and you will not thwart him, Stafford? It is hard for me to have to say this; but--but you will understand."

"I understand," he said in a low voice. "I am grateful to your father.

Our marriage shall take place as soon as you please. It is for you to fix the date, Maude."

She nestled against him and touched his coat with her lips.

"I am ashamed of myself," she murmured; "but, ah, well! love casteth out shame."

A servant knocked at the door.

"The horse is round, miss," he announced.

"I was going for a ride," she said; "but I will send the horse away--unless you will ride with me. You will, Stafford?"

"Certainly," he said, glad of the interruption to this _tete-a-tete_ which had been to him a positive torture.