‘Poor child, don’t you know that people who hint things they dare not assert are always liars? But Bella is gone, with all her sins upon her head. I will tell you more of her by and by. It is by her act that you have suffered. It was she who stole your father’s letter. On her death-bed——but I will tell you all by and by. You have had too much agitation already. How pale you are looking! And you are shivering too. We have been standing too long in this keen air. Let me take you home, dearest. Do you live far from here?’
‘A good way, but I shall be better presently.’
‘Lean on my arm, love.’
And so supported, Beatrix walked slowly down the narrow track, to the village at the foot of the hill, and by and by a faint colour came back to her cheeks, and a happy light shone in her lovely eyes. The clock struck ten as they passed the church.
‘I came out only for a ramble before breakfast,’ said Beatrix. ‘Poor Madame Leonard will be wondering what has become of me.’
‘Madame Leonard? Ah, that is your companion.’
‘Yes, the dearest creature in the world. I could never tell you what a comfort she has been to me—indulging all my caprices—consoling me in my sorrows—a second mother. And now she and I will go together to see my own mother’s grave—the convent where she died. I have been already to see the place of her birth.’
‘My Beatrix, do you think I will ever let you take any journey again without my company? A man who has lost a jewel and found it again knows how to guard his treasure. You are mine henceforward—mine till death—unless you tell me I have forfeited your love.’
‘I could not say anything so false. I have never left off loving you,’ she answered gently. ‘Do not let us talk of the past. Let us forget it, if we can. When I saw the announcement of poor Kenrick’s death in the Times I felt myself free—and—I thought—perhaps—some day I should go back to Yorkshire to see the kind Dulcimers, and my good old servants—and then—you and I might meet. But I never thought it would be so soon.’
‘God has been good to us, love. And now tell me, Beatrix, can you bear to give up your liberty and share the lot of a hard-working parish priest? Could you bear even to go with me into a busy, smoky town, full of foulest things—if I felt that duty constrained me to take up my abode there? Could you endure to live in such a place as Bridford, for instance? But, I forget, you do not know Bridford.’