“So it must be, and so it should be—” Arthur was beginning, when the front-door bell rang, suddenly and violently.
We heard the front-door hastily opened, and voices outside: then a knock at the door of the smoking-room, and the old housekeeper appeared, looking a little scared.
“Two persons, my Lord, to speak with Dr. Forester.”
Arthur stepped outside at once, and we heard his cheery “Well, my men?” but the answer was less audible, the only words I could distinctly catch being “ten since morning, and two more just—”
“But there is a doctor there?” we heard Arthur say: and a deep voice, that we had not heard before, replied “Dead, Sir. Died three hours ago.”
Lady Muriel shuddered, and hid her face in her hands: but at this moment the front-door was quietly closed, and we heard no more.
For a few minutes we sat quite silent: then the Earl left the room, and soon returned to tell us that Arthur had gone away with the two fishermen, leaving word that he would be back in about an hour. And, true enough, at the end of that interval—during which very little was said, none of us seeming to have the heart to talk—the front-door once more creaked on its rusty hinges, and a step was heard in the passage, hardly to be recognised as Arthur’s, so slow and uncertain was it, like a blind man feeling his way.
He came in, and stood before Lady Muriel, resting one hand heavily on the table, and with a strange look in his eyes, as if he were walking in his sleep.
“Muriel—my love—” he paused, and his lips quivered: but after a minute he went on more steadily. “Muriel—my darling—they—want me—down in the harbour.”
“Must you go?” she pleaded, rising and laying her hands on his shoulders, and looking up into his face with her great eyes brimming over with tears. “Must you go, Arthur? It may mean—death!”
He met her gaze without flinching. “It does mean death,” he said, in a husky whisper: “but—darling—I am called. And even my life itself—” His voice failed him, and he said no more.
For a minute she stood quite silent, looking upwards with a helpless gaze, as if even prayer were now useless, while her features worked and quivered with the great agony she was enduring. Then a sudden inspiration seemed to come upon her and light up her face with a strange sweet smile. “Your life?” she repeated. “It is not yours to give!”
Arthur had recovered himself by this time, and could reply quite firmly, “That is true,” he said. “It is not mine to give. It is yours, now, my—wife that is to be! And you—do you forbid me to go? Will you not spare me, my own beloved one?”
Still clinging to him, she laid her head softly on his breast. She had never done such a thing in my presence before, and I knew how deeply she must be moved. “I will spare you,” she said, calmly and quietly, “to God.”
“And to God’s poor,” he whispered.
“And to God’s poor,” she added. “When must it be, sweet love?”
“Tomorrow morning,” he replied. “And I have much to do before then.”
And then he told us how he had spent his hour of absence. He had been to the Vicarage, and had arranged for the wedding to take place at eight the next morning (there was no legal obstacle, as he had, some time before this, obtained a Special License) in the little church we knew so well. “My old friend here,” indicating me, “will act as ‘Best Man,’ I know: your father will be there to give you away: and—and—you will dispense with bride’s-maids, my darling?”
She nodded: no words came.
“And then I can go with a willing heart—to do God’s work—knowing that we are one—and that we are together in spirit, though not in bodily presence—and are most of all together when we pray! Our prayers will go up together—”
“Yes, yes!” sobbed Lady Muriel. “But you must not stay longer now, my darling! Go home and take some rest. You will need all your strength tomorrow—”
“Well, I will go,” said Arthur. “We will be here in good time tomorrow. Good night, my own own darling!”
I followed his example, and we two left the house together. As we walked back to our lodgings, Arthur sighed deeply once or twice, and seemed about to speak—but no words came, till we had entered the house, and had lit our candles, and were at our bedroom-doors. Then Arthur said “Good night, old fellow! God bless you!”
“God bless you!” I echoed, from the very depths of my heart.
We were back again at the Hall by eight in the morning, and found Lady Muriel and the Earl, and the old Vicar, waiting for us. It was a strangely sad and silent party that walked up to the little church and back; and I could not help feeling that it was much more like a funeral than a wedding: to Lady Muriel it was in fact, a funeral rather than a wedding, so heavily did the presentiment weigh upon her (as she told us afterwards) that her newly-won husband was going forth to his death.
Then we had breakfast; and, all too soon, the vehicle was at the door, which was to convey Arthur, first to his lodgings, to pick up the things he was taking with him, and then as far towards the death-stricken hamlet as it was considered safe to go. One or two of the fishermen were to meet him on the road, to carry his things the rest of the way.
“And are you quite sure you are taking all that you will need?” Lady Muriel asked.
“All that I shall need as a doctor, certainly. And my own personal needs are few: I shall not even take any of my own wardrobe—there is a fisherman’s suit, ready-made, that is waiting for me at my lodgings. I shall only take my watch, and a few books, and—stay—there is one
