So saying, he took up his hat, and turned abruptly to leave the room. Apparently, however, ere he reached the door, some thought came across him which induced him to relinquish this design, for he stood irresolutely for a moment, with the handle in his hand, and then returned, saying in a low voice, “No, I cannot do it!—Fanny,” he continued, speaking rapidly, as if mistrusting his self-control, “I am going abroad to-morrow; we may not meet again for years, perhaps (for life and death are strangely intermingled) we may meet in this world no more. Since you were a child we have lived together like brother and sister and I cannot leave you without saying good-bye—without expressing a fervent wish that in the lot you have chosen for yourself you may meet with all the happiness you anticipate, and which you so well deserve.”
“Going abroad?” repeated Fanny mechanically, as if stunned by this unexpected intelligence.
“Yes; I start for the Continent early to-morrow morning: you know I am always alarmingly hasty in my movements,” he added, with a faint attempt at a smile.
“It must be on account of your health,” exclaimed Fanny quickly. “Ah!” she continued, with a start, as a new and painful idea occurred to her, “the fearful leap you took to save me—the exertion was too much for you; I knew—I felt at the time it would be so; better, far better, had I perished in that dark river, than that you should have endangered your valuable life.”
“Indeed, it is not so, Fanny,” replied Oaklands kindly, and, taking her hand, he led her to the sofa, for she trembled so violently it was evident she could scarcely stand; “I am regaining strength daily, and Ellis will tell you that complete change of scene and air is the best thing for me.”
“Is that really all?” inquired Fanny; “but why then go so suddenly? Think of your father; surely it will be a great shock to Sir John.”
“I cannot stay here,” replied Harry impetuously, “it would madden me.” The look of surprise and alarm with which Fanny regarded him led him to perceive the error he had committed, and, fearful of betraying himself, he added quickly, “You must make allowance for the morbid fancies of an invalid, proverbially the most capricious of all mortals. Six weeks ago I was in quite as great a hurry to reach this place as I now am to get away from it—”
He paused, sighed deeply, and then, with a degree of self-control for which I had scarcely given him credit, added, in a cheerful tone, “But I will not thrust my gloomy imaginings upon you; nothing dark or disagreeable should be permitted to cloud the fair prospect which to-day has opened before you. You must allow me,” he continued, in a calm voice, though the effort it cost him to preserve composure must have been extreme—“you must allow me the privilege of an old friend, and let me be the first to tell you how sincerely I hope that the rank and station which will one day be yours—rank which you are so well fitted to adorn—may bring you all the happiness you imagine.”
“Happiness, rank and station! May I ask to what you refer, Mr. Oaklands?” replied Fanny, colouring crimson. “I may have been premature in my congratulations,” replied he; “I would not distress or annoy you for the world; but under the circumstances—this being probably the only opportunity I may have of expressing the deep interest I must always feel in everything that relates to your happiness—I may surely be excused; I felt I could not leave you without telling you this.”
“You are labouring under some extraordinary delusion, Mr. Oaklands,” rejoined Fanny, turning away her face, and speaking very quickly; “pray let this subject be dropped.”