"They told me that, through the failure of a bank, you had lost the whole of your fortune, and that, consequently, you had resigned all pretensions to my hand."
"And you?"
"I thought that you might have called to see me; or, at least, have written to me. I could not understand why, if you still continued to care for me, you should choose to give me up simply because you had lost your fortune."
"You could not understand it?"
"Indeed I could not. And I fail to understand it now. If you were poor, I was rich. What greater happiness could I have than to endow you with my plenty? When I gave you my love, it meant that I gave you everything I could call mine."
"You look at the question from a woman's point of view, Edith: I, from a man's."
"If I had lost my fortune as you lost yours, would you have given me up?" asked Edith.
"Certainly not."
"Nor I you. With me, to love and to be loved is everything. In comparison with that all else is as nothing."
"Edith, I could not come to you penniless, and ask you to become my wife. When I found myself a poor man, I had no profession to fly to; I was acquainted with no business. I was a great hulking good-for-nothing, able to plough and reap, and earn a bare crust by the sweat of my brow, and that was all. How was it possible for me to become a dependent on you for my daily bread?"
"You would not have been a dependent, Lionel. My money would have been yours, just as my love was yours."
"Still a woman's view, my dearest," said Lionel. "The noblest and the best, I at once admit. Only, the world would never have believed that I had not married you for your fortune."
"You and I together, Lionel, could have afforded to set the world's opinion at defiance."
Lionel ended the argument with a kiss.
A fair, sweet English face was that which nestled so lovingly on Lionel's shoulder. Edith West had large liquid dark brown eyes. Her eyebrows and eyelashes were nearly black, but the thick wavy masses of her hair had no shade deeper than that of chestnuts in autumn. The tints of the wild rose dwelt in her cheeks. About her there was a freshness, a sweetness, and a delicate grace, like that of a breezy morning in spring, when flowers are growing, and birds are singing, and all nature seems glad at heart.
"You are in mourning, Lionel," said Edith, suddenly.
"Yes; I have just lost my uncle, Mr. St. George, of Park Newton."
"I never remember to have heard you speak of him."
"Probably not. I never even saw him, never had any communication with him whatever. Nevertheless, it is to him that I owe my fortune."
"It has come to you unexpectedly?"
"Entirely so. Three days ago I should have laughed at the idea of being my uncle's heir: now they tell me that I am worth eleven thousand a year."
"It sounds like a fairy tale," cried Edith. "What a strange man your uncle must have been!"
"When the will was read," returned Lionel, "my first thought was of you. I said to myself, 'Has Edith forgotten me? Has she given me up? Am I too late?' I trembled to think what the answer might be. Now I tremble no longer."
"It is sweet, Lionel, to have you here, and to know that you are my own again," replied Edith. "But how much sweeter it would have been if you had come to me when you were poor, and had trusted everything to my love!"
A week passed away, each day of which saw Lionel Dering a visitor in Roehampton Terrace. Edith and he were much together. It was the happiest time they had ever known. All the freshness of their recent meeting was still upon them; besides which, their long separation had taught them to value each other more, perhaps, than they would have done, had everything gone smoothly with them from the first. The weather, for an English winter, was brilliant, and they rode out every morning into the country. Of an evening, Edith, Lionel, and Mrs. Garside had the drawing-room all to themselves; and although an "exposition of sleep" generally came over the elder lady after dinner, the young people never seemed to miss her society, nor were they ever heard to complain that the time hung heavily on their hands.
They were very happy. They had so much to tell each other about the past--so many golden daydreams to weave of what they would do in the future! Edith could never hear enough about Lionel's life at Gatehouse Farm, and about his adventure with Tom Bristow; while Lionel found himself evincing a quite novel interest in the well-being of sundry ragged-schools, homes for destitute children, and other philanthropic schemes of whose very existence he had been in utter ignorance only a few days before.
But everything must come to an end, and after a time there came a summons from Mr. Perrins. Lionel was wanted down at Park Newton. The old lawyer could go on no longer without him. So Edith and he were compelled to bid each other farewell for a week or two. Meanwhile, the post was to be the daily medium for the interchange of their vows and messages.
CHAPTER VI.
FIRST DAYS AT PARK NEWTON.
The dining-room at Park Newton. A cosy little table, with covers set for two people, was drawn up near the fire. The evening was cold and frosty. The wax-candles were lighted, the logs on the hearth burned cheerily. A large Indian screen shut in this end of the room from the wilderness of gloom and desolation beyond; for the dining-room at Park Newton would accommodate fifty or sixty guests with ease. The clock on the mantelpiece pointed to ten minutes past seven. Lionel Dering was growing impatient.
"Perrins is generally punctuality itself," he said. "What can have detained him? I hope he is not ill."
He was on the point of ringing the bell, and sending the servant with a message to the lawyer's room, when Mr. Perrins came in. With many apologies for being late, he sat down to table; but Lionel saw at once that he was bursting with some important news. As soon as the first course was served, and the servant had left the room, Perrins began.
"I have some very startling information for you, Mr. Dering," he said. "My late arrival at table is owing to a certain discovery which I made about an hour ago."
"I hope you are not going to tell me that my eleven thousand a year is all moonshine," said Lionel, as he helped the lawyer to some clear soup.
"No, no, Mr. Dering. The news I have to tell you is not quite so bad as that, and yet it is bad enough in all conscience. While going through some of your uncle's papers this afternoon--you know what a quantity of them there are, and in what disorder he kept them--while engaged upon this necessary duty, I discovered--what think you, sir? what think you?"
"Another will, I suppose," said Lionel, slowly.
"Not another will, but a codicil, sir; codicil to the will with whose provisions we are already acquainted; in the handwriting of the testator himself, witnessed in due form, and dated only three months ago!"
"And what may be the contents of this important document?" asked Lionel, as he crumbled his bread with apparent indifference.
"The contents are these: Should you, Lionel Dering, die unmarried, or without lawful issue, the whole of the property bequeathed you by your uncle's will reverts to your cousin, Mr. Kester St. George, or to his children, should you be the longer liver of the two."
"Is that all?" said Lionel, with a sigh of relief.
"All, sir! Quite enough, too, I should say, if I were in your place."
"Nobody can touch the property as long as, I live."
"Certainly not."
"Then a fig for the rest! Shall I send you a sole or some stewed eels?"
"It is quite a relief, to me to find how coolly you take