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      ‘Ay, there is no hope for St. Wulstan’s till people have left off thinking a guinea their duty, and five very handsome! and that Augusta Mervyn should have gone and married our bête noire—our lord of gin-palaces—I do think it must be on purpose for you to melt him. I shall set you at him, Humfrey, next time Mr. Askew writes to me in despair, that something won’t go on for lack of means. Only I must be quite sure that you won’t give the money yourself, to spare the trouble of dunning.’

      ‘It is not fair to take other people’s duties on oneself; besides, as you’ll find, Honor, the Holt purse is not bottomless.’

      As she would find! This was a very odd way of making sure of her beforehand, but she was not certain that she did not like it. It was comfortable, and would save much preliminary.

      The woods were bursting into spring: delicate, deeply creased leaves were joyously emerging to the light on the birches, not yet devoid of the silvery wool where they had been packed, the hazels were fluttering their goslings, the palms were honey sweet with yellow tufts, the primroses peeped out in the banks of moss.

      ‘Oh! Humfrey, this is the great desire of my life fulfilled, to see the Holt in the flush of spring!’

      ‘I have always said you cared for the place more than any one,’ said Humfrey, evidently gratified, but with an expression which she did not understand.

      ‘As if I did not! But how strangely differently from my vision my wish has been fulfilled.’

      ‘How strangely!’ he repeated, with even greater seriousness than had been in her voice.

      The meadow was bright with spring grass, the cattle grazing serenely as in old times, the garden—ah! not quite so gay—either it was better in autumn than in spring, or it wanted poor Sarah’s hand; the dogs, not the same individuals, but with much the same manners, dancing round their master—all like, all home. Nothing wanting, but, alas! the good-natured, narrow-minded old mistress of the house to fret her, and notable Sarah to make her comfortable, and wonder at her eccentric tastes. Ah! and how much more was wanting the gentle mother who did all the civility and listening, and the father, so happy to look at green woods, read poetry, and unbend his weary brow! How much more precious was the sight of the one living remnant of those days!

      They had a cheerful evening. Mr. Saville had a great deal of old-fashioned Oxford agreeableness; he was very courtly, but a sensible man, with some native fun and many college stories. After many years of donship, his remote parish was somewhat of a solitude to him, and intercourse with a cultivated mind was as pleasant to him now as the sight of a lady had been in his college days. Honor liked conversation too; and Miss Wells, Lucilla, and Owen had been rather barren in that respect, so there was a great deal of liveliness, in which Humfrey took his full share; while good Mrs. Saville looked like what she was, her husband’s admiring housekeeper.

      ‘Do you take early walks still, Humfrey?’ asked Honor, as she bade him good night. ‘If you do, I shall be quite ready to confront the dew;’ and therewith came a revulsion of the consciousness within. Was this courting him? and to her great provocation there arose an uncomfortable blush.

      ‘Thank you,’ he said, with something of a mournful tone, ‘I’m afraid I’m past that, Honor. To-morrow, after breakfast—good night.’

      Honor was a little alarmed by all this, and designed a conference with the old housekeeper, Mrs. Stubbs, to inquire into her master’s health, but this was not attainable that night, and she could only go to bed in the friendly old wainscoted room, whose white and gold carved monsters on the mantelpiece were well-nigh as familiar as the dove in Woolstone-lane; but, oh! how it made her long for the mother whom she used to kiss there.

      Humfrey was brisk and cheerful as ever at breakfast, devising what his guests would like to do for the day, and talking of some friends whom he had asked to meet Mr. Saville, so that all the anxieties with which Honora had risen were dissipated, and she took her part gaily in the talk. There was something therefore freshly startling to her, when, on rising, Humfrey gravely said, ‘Honor, will you come into my study for a little while?’

      The study had always been more of a place for guns and fishing-tackle than for books. It was Humfrey’s usual living room when alone, and was of course full besides of justice books, agricultural reports, acts of parliament, piles of papers, little bags of samples of wheat, all in the orderly disorder congenial to the male kind. All this was as usual, but the change that struck her was, that the large red leather lounging chair, hitherto a receptacle for the overflowings of the table, was now wheeled beside the fire, and near it stood a little table with a large print Bible on it, which she well remembered as his mother’s. Humfrey set a chair for her by the fire, and seated himself in the easy one, leaning back a little. She had not spoken. Something in his grave preparation somewhat awed her, and she sat upright, watching him.

      ‘It was very kind of you to come, Honor,’ he began; ‘more kind than you know.’

      ‘I am sure it could be no other than a treat—’

      He continued, before she could go farther, ‘I wished particularly to speak to you. I thought it might perhaps spare you a shock.’

      She looked at him with a terrified eye.

      ‘Don’t be frightened, my dear,’ he said, leaning forward, ‘there is no occasion. Such things must come sooner or later, and it is only that I wished to tell you that I have been having advice for a good many uncomfortable feelings that have troubled me lately.’

      ‘Well?’ she asked, breathlessly.

      ‘And Dixon tells me that it is aneurism.’

      Quick and fast came Honora’s breath; her hands were clasped together; her eyes cast about with such a piteous, despairing expression, that he started to his feet in a moment, exclaiming—‘Honor! Honor dear! don’t! there’s no need. I did not think you would feel it in this way!’

      ‘Feel! what should I feel if not for you? Oh! Humfrey! don’t say it! you are all that is left me—you cannot be spared!’ and as he came towards her, she grasped his hand and clung to him, needing the support which he gave in fear of her fainting.

      ‘Dear Honor, do not take it thus. I am very well now—I dare say I shall be so to the last, and there is nothing terrible to the imagination. I am very thankful for both the preparation and the absence of suffering. Will not you be the same?’

      ‘Yes, you,’ said Honora, sitting up again, and looking up into his sincere, serene face; ‘I cannot doubt that even this is well for you, but it is all selfishness—just as I was beginning to feel what you are to me.’

      Humfrey’s face lighted up suddenly. ‘Then, Honor,’ he said, evidently putting strong restraint upon his voice, ‘you could have listened to me now!’

      She bowed her head—the tears were dropping very fast.

      ‘Thank God!’ he said, as again he leant back in his chair; and when she raised her eyes again, he sat with his hands clasped, and a look of heavenly felicity on his face, raised upwards.

      ‘Oh! Humfrey! how thoughtlessly I have trifled away all that might have been the happiness of your life!’

      ‘You never trifled with me,’ he said; ‘you have always dealt honestly and straightforwardly, and it is best as it is. Had we been together all this time, СКАЧАТЬ