The Grey Monk

by T. W. Speight

“I could not have helped it, darling, had it been to save my life,” he said. “For one thing, it is your birthday, and surely on such an occasion a lover’s kisses are the sweetest congratulations he can offer. And then, again, I am the bearer of good news. The need no longer exists for keeping our engagement a secret. I am here this afternoon to seek an interview with your aunts, and I trust that by the time we are a couple of days older all the world of St. Oswyth’s will know that you and I are betrothed.”

Ethel did not reply; she had not yet recovered her equanimity. They had turned, and were now sauntering slowly across the lawn. Launce’s promise to at once seek an interview with her aunts had served to lift a weight off her heart, and yet she was conscious of a certain shrinking, not untinged with regret, now that the time had come when the secret of her engagement would be a secret no longer. It seemed to her as if the act of telling her aunts would serve to bind her irrevocably to a promise which till now she had felt in some vague sort of way she could have broken had she willed to do so. Now, however, that power would be lost to her for ever. For better for worse, she had accepted this man for her life partner, and she must abide by the result. She told herself that she ought to be very, very glad, and yet, somehow, there was no glow of gladness at her heart.

“I am given to understand,” resumed Launce presently, “that nowadays young ladies are in the habit of looking for something on their birthdays much more substantial than mere kisses and good wishes. So, as I have no desire to be behind other people in such matters, I venture to offer this little trinket for your acceptance, in the hope that it may sometimes serve to remind you of the giver.”

While speaking he had drawn from his pocket a pretty bracelet of novel design, having on it the letter ‘E’ formed with small diamonds and emeralds. Mr. Keymer senior had groaned in spirit while drawing the cheque to pay for it, but, for all that, he looked upon it as money well laid out. Taking Ethel’s left hand in his, Launce proceeded to fix the bracelet round her wrist. Then raising his hat for a moment, he touched her fingers with his lips as respectfully as if she had been a princess. It was an effect which had been duly planned beforehand, as had also the apparently spontaneous embrace on which he had audaciously ventured at the moment of seeing her.

“It is exceedingly pretty, and you are very kind,” murmured Ethel, as she let her eyes dwell for a moment on his. But, for all that, she felt as if the bracelet were a manacle.

“And now,” resumed Launce, “the sooner I get over my formidable interview with your aunts, the better it will be for all concerned.”

His words served like a shock to bring back to Ethel’s mind all that had happened to her since the morning, which the events of the last few minutes had served temporarily to banish, and to remind her of the painful duty she had still to perform. There was no way of escape. To have married Launce without having first made known to him as much of the story of her early life as was known to herself, would have been disloyal both to herself and him, and that was a possibility which did not find a moment’s lodgment in her thoughts. All the same, the task she had set herself was none the less a hard one to fulfil.

But there was no time for hesitation. Already Launce had come to a halt. In another moment he would have turned and bent his steps towards the house. She laid a detaining hand on his sleeve. “Before you see my aunts,” she said in a slightly tremulous voice, “I have something of much importance to reveal to you—something of which I myself had no knowledge till this morning.”

He turned on her a quick startled look. There was something in the way she had spoken which convinced him that it was no ordinary young lady’s secret—such as the confession of some prior girlish romance—that was about to be told him. It was quite out of the question that this pure-eyed, candid-browed, fair young creature could have anything to reveal which could in any way affect his suit for her hand. It might be that her conscience—and that she had a very tender conscience he did not doubt—troubled her about some trivial sin of omission, or commission, as to which she felt that she must take him into her confidence, but at which he, a man, could well afford to smile, and never give to it as much as a second thought.

The look of startled surprise merged into one of his brightest smiles. He pressed her hand as if to give her confidence. “Whatever may be the nature of what you have to tell me,” he said, “you are at least assured beforehand of my sympathy, should you deem it worthy of acceptance.”