cried Milly, tears falling from her eyes unheeded. “You spared her much anxiety at the last.”
“The reason of my addressing myself to you now is this,” resumed Mr. Wareham: “Mr. Vining’s days are numbered. He is living at Brentnor” (this was the name of a little watering-place about seven miles from Trowchester), “and I see him whenever I can find time to drive over. He has asked me to assure you of his deep repentance of his fault, and to beg your forgiveness for the past.”
“Oh, my poor father!” sobbed Milly. “Forgive him! Tell him, Mr. Wareham, that I love him dearly, and if I could only see him—”
“That I had thought of,” said Mr. Wareham, “and it is possible an interview might be arranged. He wishes to hear from your own lips that you do not hate him as the cause of your mother’s sufferings. Of course this could only be in Mr. Leslie’s absence.”
“But if I could tell him, Mr. Wareham,” said Milly, “if I could only tell him! He would forgive the deception, and provide for my poor father’s support, if I might only kneel down at his feet and tell him what I have suffered.”
“It is not to be thought of for one moment,” said Mr. Wareham. “I know his character thoroughly, and do not doubt his kindness; but I say again, it must not be. What I have done, I have done, and there is, I fear, but little more to do.” He rose to go. “I shall be in Brentnor to-morrow, and I will let you know, on my return, in what state I have found Mr. Vining.”
Once more alone, Milly reproached herself for her ingratitude to Mr. Wareham. All the while she had been distrusting him he had been doing, without a word of thanks, what she would have given everything she possessed not to have left undone. To picture to herself her poor broken-down father, longing for a few words of kindness from her lips: to reproach herself for not having endeavoured to seek him out after her mother’s death: at one moment, to long to break her promise, and tell her husband the miserable story; at the next, to try how she could hide it from him more completely:—such was the current of Milly’s thoughts, and bitter and wretched and self-humiliating they were.
The night dragged slowly on, and she rose on the following day in a fever of excitement. She watched and waited, starting at the sound of every footstep, till five o’clock in the afternoon, when Mr. Wareham came in hurriedly. He said he had just returned from Brentnor: he had been there all night: Mr. Vining was evidently sinking, and he feared, unless she saw him within a few hours, in this world they could not meet at all.
“Let me go to him, Mr. Wareham!” she implored. “Let me go to him!”
“If there were a railroad to Brentnor, there would be no difficulty,” he replied; “but the drive there and back will occupy at least three hours, and your mother-in-law would doubtless hear of your absence. Could you not excuse yourself from attending service at the chapel with her this evening, and, as soon as she has gone, take a fly to Brentnor?”
“Oh, yes, yes,” said Milly, who had seen all the difficulty of freeing herself from Mrs. Leslie’s companionship, and was thankful for the suggestion; “but it will be dark; if I do not find a fly—”
“I will take care that one is waiting for you at the market-cross, at a quarter to seven,” said Mr. Wareham, “and I will give instructions to the driver. The people of the house in which your father lives are prepared for your coming.”
Milly acquiesced in the arrangement.
He calculated, he said, that it would be quite possible for her to get back to Trowchester before half-past nine, the time when Mr. Broughton’s hearers would most likely be at liberty to return to their homes, and when her own coming in would probably pass unnoticed.
She tried to thank him, but her words were lost in her tears. How should she look her husband in the face when he returned? How should she ever wipe out the debt of gratitude she owed Mr. Wareham?
Ding, dong, ding. Ding, dong, ding. The cathedral bells again.
She had listened to them as evening after evening sped by in hope, in doubt, in misery. They were associated in her memory with the few eventful hours of her life. Now they rung warnings, reproaches, revilings into her ears. Whichever way she turned, there was treachery, either to her mother’s memory or her husband’s love.
Mrs. Leslie, calling according to her custom, saw that her daughter-in-law looked fevered and ill, and not ungraciously accepted her excuses. The door had no sooner closed upon her, than Milly ran breathlessly to her room, dressed herself in haste, and took her way to the market-cross, just as the twilight was deepening into shadow. A fly was drawn up in front of the old stone pile. Milly hesitated a moment, as the driver approached her.
“For Brentnor?” he said. “Mr. Wareham has given me my orders.”
She got in. She noticed that a man hastily jumped upon the box beside the driver. She was in a state of feverish excitement, by which every nerve was sharpened. Her throat was parched: she could hardly draw her breath, and, with her face turned towards the open window to catch the cool air, she saw she was leaving the town of Trowchester behind her, and speeding out towards the open country.
CHAPTER IV.
