CHAPTER IX.—THE REWARD OF FAITHFULNESS AND TRUTH.
Work then with steadfast hope and hand;
Yoke goodwill to the sturdy plough;
Cut the deep furrow through the land;
On high the ridges throw.
So shall increase thy labours crown,
And joy bring in thy harvest home;
Yet faint not should thy fortunes frown,
Thy harvest is to come.
Constant in this, take heart and breath;
These cannot fail whate’er befall—.
Duty and Love, and Truth and Faith,
And Pure-Intent withal.
—Kington.
Mark Wilton, with the impetuosity natural to his character, had, after his last interview with Lotte Clinton, determined, on leaving her residence, that another twenty-four hours should close his account with England and all it contained.
The first ocean-going steamer bound for a distant port should convey him—no matter whither it was destined. A selfish, inexorable parent, a too-scrupulous love, he would leave behind him for ever; and in some wild, exciting service, under the flag of a nation on the other side of the globe, he resolved to endeavour to forget the cause of his present unhappiness.
In the heat of his wrath, against his parent especially, he encountered Charles Clinton, and from him learned that his father had been struck down by the bullet of an assassin, and, for all that was at the moment known, lay at the point of death.
The natural impulse of a generous and affectionate heart effected an instant revulsion of feeling, and the ocean-going steamer was at once abandoned for the train to Harleydale.
Before the night closed in he was, with an able surgeon, at his father’s bedside.
As he gazed upon the old man’s ashy face, his closed eyes, the furrowed wrinkles—traces of care and long suffering—all angry, rebellious animosity took wing; he knelt down by the couch, and, with falling tears, prayed earnestly for him against whom so few hours back his heart had been so fiercely moved.
The surgeon, after a careful examination, reported that the wound received by old Wilton, though severe, was neither fatal nor in itself dangerous, but the shock it had occasioned to the system of an aged and feeble man was essentially the latter; in fact, the prostration it had produced rendered his condition highly critical. The surgeon plainly said that extraordinary care and unceasing tending and nursing could alone save him; and he impressed it upon Mark’s mind that failure in the nurse’s duties would be fatal to his father.
It was necessary that Flora should be made acquainted with the directions of the surgeon; and Mark, surprised at not seeing her with her father, sent for her, believing that agony and fright had compelled her to retire to her chamber.
He was astounded to learn that she was not in the house. That she had quitted the Hall in the morning, and had not returned; and though messengers had been despatched in every direction in search of her, she could not only not be found, but no tidings could be gained of her.
This was a new blow to him. He felt distracted and bewildered; he could suggest to himself nothing to account for her absence but some frightful and fatal accident. He dare not leave his father’s side to search for her, and the people by whom he was attended or to whom he might apply appeared to have done all in their power, but in vain, to gain tidings of her.
While racking his brain to devise a means of instantly instituting a fresh search for her, his father roused himself from his previous lethargic condition, and gazed feebly around him: as his dull eyes fell upon Mark they brightened up, a smile of affection passed over his ghastly features, and he pressed the hand with which Mark clasped his.
Again his eyes wandered round the bedside twice ‘or thrice, then he turned to Mark with a disappointed look. His lips moved, and in a faint tone he murmured—“Flora.”
What was to be said?
With an air of embarrassment, Mark responded—
“She is in her room—she is not well—frightened, unable to support this shocking event.”
The old man shook his head feebly.
“I have been harsh and selfish to her,” he said. “I have endeavoured to enforce my will against her hopes of future happiness, and she does not forget it now.”
He turned his face away with an air of pain and sorrowful discontent.
“Beware of exciting his mind in any shape,” whispered the surgeon. “He is too exhausted to sustain it.”
Mark bent over his father, and whispered in his ear—
“Do not wrong Flora, dear sir,” he said; “she will be here shortly, and her absence shall be satisfactorily explained to you.”
As the surgeon imposed implicit silence, Mark sat down to reflect upon what course was to be pursued respecting Flora’s unaccountable disappearance. It suddenly occurred to him that his friend Harry Vivian would be the individual to apply to for assistance. There was no doubt on his mind that he would do his utmost to ascertain what had befallen her, and to restore her in safety, if such happy issue was to attend the mystery of her absence.
As soon as the suggestion presented itself, he despatched a servant to the station with a telegraphic message to Vivian, paying for the return message, instructing him to come down to Harleydale at once, even to engage a special train, the cost of which he, Mark, would defray, for the matter on which he desired to confer with him admitted of no delay.
An answer was received in a brief period, which ran thus—
“Vivian from home. Gone, not known where; return, not known token.”
This was a climax; and he reseated himself by the invalid’s bedside, his mind tortured by doubts respecting the fate of his father and of his sister, and agonized by his remembrances of his parting with Lotte Clinton.
The surgeon had retired for the night, having given his parting directions. Old Wilton lay in a motionless slumber, produced by an opiate. The old housekeeper flitted about the room like a phantom, and Mark, with folded arms and eyes fastened on vacancy, still continued successively calling up dreamy visions.
Inspired by a new hope, communicated to his heart by his father’s fond smile and affectionate manner to him he shaped out schemes to conquer his repugnance to marriage with Lotte Clinton. What if he were to present her with the whole of the money he had brought from abroad with him? A girl with a dowry of upwards of six thousand pounds was hardly one even for his father to reject.
But would she accept it, if he offered it to her!
This sempstress, so proud, so single-minded, so clear in her perceptions, so firm in her resolves, so undeviating in her spirit of rectitude.
Well, he might bestow it upon her anonymously, and then contrive an accidental meeting with her. He might——
Hark!
Carriage-wheels rolling over the gravelled path, and stopping before the hall-door.
Mark sprang to his feet. It must be Flora returned.
It was Flora and Hal too. He met them in the hall, both entering in with grave faces and soft step.
And the temptation?
It had been triumphed over. Hal had battled with it manfully; but love and passion, and fears of losing so dear a treasure, had fastened upon honour, and all but strangled it.
In his dire extremity, Hal called upon Flora, and unfolded the conflict going on within his heart to her view. He asked her for counsel and for argument to combat the incentives tugging at his heart-strings, urging him to do with her free consent what Colonel Mires had sought to do without it.
She could only weep and tremble; and alas!—for she, too, could not bear to think that they must part for ever—leave in his hands the momentous decision.
His honour was, however, of stubborn material; it continued its exertion in spite of the formidable antagonists it had to contend with, and there stepped to its aid at an opportune moment the remembrance of the wound inflicted on old Wilton by Chewkle.
Hal at once broke to Flora the event of the morning.
It saved them both.
They continued their journey to Harleydale, scarce a word passing between them.
When at the Hall they met Mark, Flora flung herself upon her brother’s neck, and sobbed—from more causes than one.
“Be not alarmed, Flo’, dear,” whispered Mark; “the surgeon says there is no danger. He only wants good nursing; you will do all that, I know.”
Flora almost sank to the earth.
“If I had left him!” she thought, and, only waving her hand to Hal, tottered to her father’s room.
“If I had induced her to fly with me,” thought Hal, and instinctively smote his breast.
Mark wrung his hand warmly.
“You have saved her,” he said; “from whom?”
“Mires,” replied Hal, laconically.
“And from myself,” he might have added.
Mark started in astonishment.
“From him?” he ejaculated. Then he said—“No matter whom—she is back safe again. You are pale and fagged; you must have some rest. I will hear you recount what has passed after you have risen in the morning.”
They separated; for Hal was only too glad to be alone—too glad to have the opportunity of making his acknowledgments of joy at having conquered his great temptation. And when he flung himself exhausted on his bed, Mark returned to his father’s room to find there Flora upon her knees in prayer, and ruthful, though silent, self-upbraiding.