Gently and tenderly Mr. Warden soothed his daughter.
“My poor little girl,” he said, “you have been too much tried for one so young. This is the last time we will talk over this sad story, but before we lay it on one side forever, you must hear one or two things it is only right you should know. Lord Hardcastle has told you no doubt most of what occurred during your absence, and all our grief for your loss, but did he tell you the part he has played throughout; what he has been to me all through our trials; and how it was he who guided us here? Tell me that Amy!”
“No,” replied Amy, “he has never mentioned anything of that kind to me. Indeed he has scarcely spoken to me the last few days, and whenever he looks at me, his eyes grow so large and cross, that I feel sure he is thinking in his own mind, ‘what an immense deal of trouble this self-willed silly girl has given us all! what a pity everyone is not as sensible and clever as I am!’ ”
Then Mr. Warden commenced from the very beginning, and told Amy every particular, even to the smallest detail, of all that had occurred during her absence. He spared her nothing. All his own grief and despair he laid bare before her, the solemn vow, too of Frank Varley and Lord Hardcastle, and how each had played their part. He recounted to her all the terrors of that dreadful night when death was in the house and the baying hound betrayed her mother’s presence. Step by step he led her on through the sad story of the finding of her mother’s body, his own brokenhearted sorrow, and Lord Hardcastle’s intense grief. Amy never lifted her eyes from his face, but drank in his every word and tone. Like one awaking from a dream, silent and enthralled she sat and listened. As Mr. Warden repeated to her Lord Hardcastle’s words in the library at the High Elms, “I want to be able to hold up a picture of the girl I love so truly, in all her innocence, and beauty, and purity, and to say to all the world, this is she whom I have loved in life, whom I love in death, whom I shall love after death, through eternity!” Amy sprang to her feet with clasped hands, exclaiming—
“Papa, papa, what is this, I do not understand.” At this moment the door opened and Lord Hardcastle entered the room. Anything more embarrassing could not be imagined. Carried away by his feelings, Mr. Warden had spoken loudly, and Amy’s high-pitched voice must have rung the length of the corridor. For a moment all were silent, and Amy, confused and nervous, leant over the window-ledge, dropping stones and dry leaves from the flower-boxes on to the verandah beneath.
Lord Hardcastle was the first to recover himself.
“Mr. Warden,” he said, “I have come in to say goodbye; I shall leave, I think, before daylight tomorrow, for a little run through Spain. I am rather interested in Dr. Lytton’s account of the Moorish excavations going on just now. You are looking so thoroughly well and happy, that I quite feel my services are no longer needed.”
He spoke carelessly, almost indifferently, but there was a mournful ring in the last few words which went straight to Amy’s heart.
“He must not go, he shall not leave us in this way,” she exclaimed, suddenly turning from the window, addressing her father, but stretching out her hands to Lord Hardcastle. The old bright look had come back to her eyes, the old imperious tones sounded once more in her voice, “How can we thank him? What can we do for him who has done so much for us. Lord Hardcastle,” she continued, turning impetuously towards him, with flushed face and sparkling eyes, “I was very rude to you a short time ago, can you forgive me? You were wearing my ruby ring, will you take it back again, and keep it forever and ever in remembrance of my gratitude to you? I have so little to offer,” she added apologetically, with a little sigh, drawing the ring from her finger and holding it towards him.
“But I want something more than the ring to keep forever and ever,” said Lord Hardcastle, in low earnest tones, for Amy’s voice and manner, told him that the icy barriers between them were broken down at last. “Not now, Amy,” he added tenderly, as he felt the little hand he had contrived to secure, trembling in his own; “not now, for we have scarcely as yet passed from beneath the cloud of the shadows of death, but by-and-by, when the dark winter days have come and gone, and the bright spring sun shines down once more upon us, then I shall hope to come to you and ask not only for this little hand, but for all you have to give, even for your own sweet self!”
There was yet one more dark shadow to fall before the travellers started on their homeward journey. Amy had proposed to her father that they should pay a farewell visit to the little brown nuns at St. Geneviève, to thank them for their hospitality to her. Mr. Warden gladly acceded to her request, and the visit was paid the day before they started for England. On leaving the convent, they purposed visiting Isola in her lonely little hut in the valley, intending to make some permanent provision for her comfort for the rest of her life.
“Poor faithful creature,” said Mr. Warden pityingly, as they descended by
