Advancing at once to Ida Mara, he took her hand, and gazed in her face, for a moment or two, without being able to speak. At length, however, he said, "How can I ever thank you? God will reward your long-devoted love for her whom he has smitten. Leave her not, Ida; leave her not, I beseech you, till she is committed to the earth; and then remember, that I shall always believe whatsoever I can do to protect and make you happy, is done for her. Sir Harry West, I know, will watch over your fate; but there is nothing which you can require, and he can ask on your behalf, that will not give me consolation to perform.--Now, good friends, I am ready; my last adieu is said."
[CHAPTER XLVI.]
The funeral of Arabella was over; and her grave was made, amongst the mighty of the land, in the Abbey of Westminster. Two months had passed; and Ida Mara, in deep mourning, sat in the hall of Sir Harry West's house, occupied in the usual task of embroidery. The good Knight had left her about half an hour before.--Mr. Crompton, who, as the reader may remember, had aided in the escape from Highgate, and was a frequent visitor at the house, having desired to speak with him alone.
Ida was still busily engaged upon her task, with her mind occupied with sad and serious thoughts--though the deep grief which she felt for the loss of her, to whom she had been so sincerely attached, had naturally subsided, in some degree, under the balmy power of time--when Sir Harry returned, with a grave and somewhat agitated air.
"Put down your needle, my dear Ida," said the old Knight, "and listen to me. I have something to tell you of importance."
"What is the matter, dear Sir Harry?" she exclaimed, gazing at him eagerly. "You are moved. Something has grieved you."
"No, indeed, Ida," replied Sir Harry West, "it is not exactly grief, though, perhaps, I am going to lose you; but if it is for your happiness, my dear child, I shall be content."
"To lose me?" cried Ida Mara, turning deadly pale. "Are you going to send me away from you?"
"No, not to send you," replied Sir Harry; "but, perhaps, you may think fit to go, when you hear what I have to say. You know Mr. Crompton; he is a gentleman of good family, of honour, and high principles--kind and generous in heart, and, though not very wealthy, has sufficient for happiness. Often having seen you with the Lady Arabella, and deeply touched with those high qualities which you have displayed towards her, and, indeed, towards every one, he asks your hand."
"Oh, no, no, no!" cried Ida Mara, with all her Italian eagerness; "tell him, I beseech you, Sir Harry, I am unworthy of the honour he intends me. Explain to him that I spring from another class. Tell my origin--tell him how you first found me, a poor Italian girl, homeless, friendless, destitute."