On reaching the inn, Hal despatched the landlord and some men to the spot where Colonel Mires had met his fate; and upon making inquiries learned that at no great distance was the main coach-road, leading to Dorset, and there was a posting-house at which he could obtain a carriage and post-horses to return to Harleydale.
He was anxious to quit the inn, for Flora’s sake, before the dead bodies were brought in. He submitted to her that it would be desirable to return to Harleydale without delay, and she readily assented to anything which he believed to be for the best. Leaving his tired steed, and having procured a seat for both in a country grocer’s light cart, they were driven over to the roadside inn named, and there, having partaken of some slight refreshment, set out in a post-chaise on their return to Harleydale.
As yet Hal had not mentioned to Flora a word respecting the condition of her father. It was his intention, when her mind became more calm, to prepare her for the event which had taken place.
By mutual consent it seemed that they banished all unpleasant matters, and reverted to that which was alone of absorbing interest to both—their love for each other. Even this subject stole by degrees only into the first place in their conversation; and then Hal honestly and honourably placed before her his true position, together with the views of the future which he entertained, and what probation he must necessarily pass before he might dare to look for the realisation of the hope first in his heart of hearts. In doing this he sketched the relation in which she stood to him, pointed out how wide apart their present stations were, and his own keen sense of the fact, so that, should she bend obedient to her father’s anxious wish to wed her to one of her own rank, he felt it would be unmanly in him to blame her, that it would indeed be ungenerous to think even harshly of her for taking the step; and if—notwithstanding her present impressions—she fancied that she would eventually be happier in uniting herself with the object of her father’s choice, it would be his duty, loving her so truly as he did, to stand from her path, that she might ensure happiness on earth, no matter what might be his own fate.
Flora stayed his speech. She leaned her head upon his shoulder, and placed her hand in his—
“I love you Hal,” she said; “I answer all your suggestions and my father’s pleadings and commands in those words. I will give my hand to no other, if not to you; and, oh! Hal,” she cried, with an impetuous burst of feeling, “I will cast away all the wealth which is to be mine, the station and its luxuries, to share your fate, whatever it may be—if you will have me. I look with fright and horror upon any other future. I can endure anything with you, submit with a smile to the frowns of fate, bear cheerfully any ills which may arise—you know, Hal, poverty ought not to scare me—I can bear troubles and trials with you, I can bear nothing if I am to be torn from you and given to another.”
“My own darling Flora!” cried Hal, pressing her tenderly to his heart.
A flush of heat rushed to his forehead and his cheeks. His heart beat rapidly, for it occurred to him that he had but to ask her now to return no more to her father’s home, but to give to him at once her hand, and thus set the machinations or the claims of all other lovers at defiance.
It was a fearful moment of temptation.
He drew a long breath.