“Ay, ay; but there’s a lass between ‘em now—what do you make o’ that?”
“As far as I can think it out, it’s against Craven.”
“Then think twice about it, Eltham, and be sure to change thy mind t’ second time; for I tell thee, Craven is as innocent as thee or me; and though t’ devil and t’ lawyers hev all t’ evidence on their side, I’ll lay thee twenty sovereigns that right’ll win. What dost ta say, Phyllis, dearie?”
And Phyllis, who had been watching his large, kindly face with the greatest admiration, smiled confidently back to him, and answered, “I think as you do Uncle Hallam,
“‘For right is right, since God is God;
And right the day must win;
To doubt would be disloyalty,
To falter would be sin.’”
Hallam looked proudly at her, and then at his opponent, who, with glistening eyes, bowed, and answered: “My dear young lady, that settles the question, here. I wish with a’ my heart it did so in ivery court in t’ kingdom; but, squire, thou knows little o’ this world, I’m feared.”
“What by that? I don’t want to know. As far as I can judge, t’ knowledge of t’ world is only an acquaintance wi’ all sorts o’ evil and unjust things. But come thy ways, Eltham, and let’s hev a bit of a walk through t’ park. I hear t’ cuckoos telling their names to ivery tree, and ivery bird in them, and there’s few sounds I like better, if it bean’t a nightingale singing.”
It was getting late, and the squire’s proposition was generally indorsed. The whole party resolved to walk to the park gates, and the carriage and Antony’s saddle-horse were ordered to meet them there. It was a delightful evening, full of an indescribable tranquillity—a tranquillity not at all disturbed by the craik of the rail in the clover, or the plaintive minor of the cuckoo in the thick groves. Eltham and the squire talked earnestly of the coming election. Phyllis, leaning on Antony’s arm, was full of thought, and Richard and Elizabeth fell gradually a little behind them. In that soft light her white garments and her fair loveliness had a peculiar charm. She reminded Richard of some Greek goddess full of grace and large serenity. He had resolved not to tell her how dear she was to him until he had better prepared the way for such a declaration; but when the time comes the full heart must speak, though it be only to call the beloved one’s name. And this was at first all Richard could say:
“Elizabeth! Dear Elizabeth!”
She recognized the voice. It was as if her soul had been waiting for it. From the sweetest depths of her consciousness she whispered “Richard,” and with the word made over her full heart to him. They stood one wonderful moment looking at each other, then he drew her to his breast and kissed her. The sweetest strongest words of love were never written. They are not translatable in earthly language. Richard was dumb with happiness, and Elizabeth understood the silence. As they rode home and sauntered up the terraces, Antony said, “What a dull evening we have had;” but Phyllis was of the initiated, and knew better. She looked at Elizabeth and smiled brightly, while Richard clasped tighter the dear hand he was holding.