Alas, between him and the light and glory of life stood a dark forbidding figure, a veiled face, an arm sternly extended to stop the way.
“It is not to be thought of,” he said to himself. “I honour her too much—yes, I love her too well. The estate must go, and she and I must go on our several ways in the wilderness of life—to meet by chance, perhaps, half a century hence, when we have grown old, and hardly remember each other.”
It was to be his last evening at Hazlehurst, and he was going to the Manor House to bid Laura and her friend goodbye. A very simple act of politeness, assuredly, yet he hung back from the performance of it, and walked slowly up and down under the elm trees, smoking a meditative cigar, and chewing the cud of fancies which were mostly bitter.
At last, just when the topmost edge of the sinking sun dropped below the dark line of distant woods, John Treverton made up his mind there was no more time to be lost, if he meant to call at the Manor House that evening. He quickened his pace, anxious to find Laura in the garden, where she spent most of her life in this balmy spring weather. He felt himself more at ease with her in the garden than when he was brought face to face with her within four walls. Out of doors there was always something to distract attention, to give a sudden turn to the conversation if it became embarrassing to either of them. Here, too, it was easier to escape Celia’s searching eye, which was so often upon them indoors, where she had very little to occupy her attention.
He went in at the lodge gate, as usual unquestioned. All the old servants agreed in regarding him as the future owner of the estate. They wondered that he asserted himself so little, and went in and out as if he were nobody. The way to the old Dutch garden was by this time very familiar to him. He had been there at almost every hour of the day, from golden noon to grey evening.
As he went round by the house he heard voices, a man’s voice among them, and the sound of that masculine voice was not welcome to his ear. Celia’s shrill little laugh rang out merrily, the sky-terrier yapped in sympathy. They were evidently enjoying themselves very much in the Dutch garden, and John Treverton felt as if their enjoyment were an affront to him.
He turned the angle of the house, and saw the group seated on a little lawn in front of the book-room windows; Laura and Celia in rustic chairs, a young man on the grass at their feet, the dog dancing round him. John Treverton guessed at once that the young man was the Edward, or Ted, about whom he had heard Celia Clare so often discourse; the Edward Clare who, according to Miss Sampson, was in love with Laura Malcolm.
Laura half rose to shake hands with her guest. Her face at least was grave. She had not been laughing at the nonsense which provoked Celia’s mirth. John Treverton was glad of that.
“Mr. Clare, Mr. Treverton.”
Edward Clare looked up and nodded—a rather supercilious nod John thought, but he did not expect much friendliness from the Vicar’s son. He gave the young man a grave bow, and remained standing by Laura’s chair.
“I hope you will forgive my late visit, Miss Malcolm,” he said. “I have come to wish you ‘goodbye.’ ”
She glanced up at him with a startled look, and he fancied—yes, he dared to fancy—that she was sorry.
“You have not stopped long at Hazlehurst,” she said, after a palpable pause.
“As if anyone would who was not absolutely obliged,” cried Celia. “I can’t imagine how Mr. Treverton has existed through an entire week.”
“I assure you that I have not found my existence a burden,” said John, addressing himself to Celia. “I shall leave Hazlehurst with deep regret.”
He could not for worlds, in his present mood, have said as much to Laura.
“Then you must be one of two things,” said Celia.
“What things?”
“You must be either a poet, or intensely in love. There is my brother here. He never seems tired of roaming about Hazlehurst. But then he is a poet, and writes verses about March violets, and the first leaf buds on the willows, and the reappearance of the Mayfly, or the return of the swallow. And he smokes no end, and he reads novels to an extent that is absolutely demoralising. It’s dreadful to see a man dependent upon Mudie for getting through his life,” exclaimed Celia, making a face that expressed extreme contempt.
“I am not a poet, Miss Clare,” said John Treverton, quietly; “yet I confess to having been very happy at Hazlehurst.”
He stole a glance at Laura to see if the shot told. She was looking down, her sweet, grave face pure and pale as ivory in the clear evening light.
“It’s very civil of you towards the parish to say as much,” said Edward with a veiled sneer, “and it is kind of you to shrink from wounding our feelings as aborigines, but I am sure you must have been ineffably bored. There is positively nothing to do at Hazlehurst.”
“I suppose that’s why the place suits you, Ted?” observed Miss Clare, innocently.
The conversation had an uncomfortable tone which was quite out of harmony with the soft evening sky, and shadowy garden, where the flowers were losing their colour as the light declined. John Treverton looked curiously at the man he knew to be his rival.
He saw a man
