’Listen to me, good and kind as you are.
You are never to call me your friend, mind that.
I am a most unhappy creature forced by circumstances
to be your enemy, for a time—not always.
You have no conception how, and may never even
suspect. Don’t ask me, but listen.’
Wonder stricken and pained was the countenance with
which the vicar gazed upon her, and Dolly looked both
frightened and perplexed.
’I have a little more than three hundred a-year.
There is a little annuity charged on Sir Hugh Landon’s
estate, and his solicitor has written, offering me
six hundred pounds for it. I will write to-night
accepting that offer, and you shall have the money
to pay those debts which have been pressing so miserably
upon you. Don’t thank—not a
word—but listen. I would so like, Dolly,
to come and live with you. We could unite our
incomes. I need only bring poor old Tamar with
me, and I can give up Redman’s Farm in September
next. I should be so much happier; and I think
my income and yours joined would enable us to live
without any danger of getting into debt. Will
you agree to this, Dolly, dear; and promise me, William
Wylder, that you will think no more of selling that
reversion, which may be the splendid provision of your
dear little boy. Don’t thank me—don’t
say anything now; and oh! don’t reject my poor
entreaty. Your refusal would almost make me mad.
I would try, Dolly, to be of use. I think I could.
Only try me.’
She fancied she saw in Dolly’s face, under all
her gratitude, some perplexity and hesitation, and
feared to accept a decision then. So she hurried
away, with a hasty and kind good-bye.
A fortnight before, I think, during Dolly’s
jealous fit, this magnificent offer of Rachel’s
would, notwithstanding the dreadful necessities of
the case, have been coldly received by the poor little
woman. But that delusion was quite cured now—no
reserve, or doubt, or coldness left behind. And
Dolly and the vicar felt that Rachel’s noble
proposal was the making of them.
AN ENEMY IN REDMAN’S DELL.
Jos. Larkin grew more and more uncomfortable
about the unexpected interposition of Rachel Lake
as the day wore on. He felt, with an unerring
intuition, that the young lady both despised and suspected
him. He also knew that she was impetuous and
clever, and he feared from that small white hand a
fatal mischief—he could not tell exactly
how—to his plans.
Jim Dutton’s letter had somehow an air of sobriety
and earnestness, which made way with his convictions.
His doubts and suspicions had subsided, and he now
believed, with a profound moral certainty, that Mark
Wylder was actually dead, within the precincts of
a mad-house or of some lawless place of detention
abroad. What was that to the purpose? Dutton
might arrive at any moment. Low fellows are always
talking; and the story might get abroad before the
assignment of the vicar’s interest. Of course
there was something speculative in the whole transaction,
but he had made his book well, and by his ‘arrangement’
with Captain Lake, whichever way the truth lay, he
stood to win. So the attorney had no notion of
allowing this highly satisfactory arithmetic to be
thrown into confusion by the fillip of a small gloved
finger.
