that surrounded him was the mystery of some fatal love-affair. She was only a secondary person in his life. There was another who had been more to him than she, Hilda, could ever be-another to whom he was bound, for whom he was willing to sacrifice his own character. She felt a jealous pang at the mere thought of that unknown one.
“No, you can never understand,” exclaimed Bothwell passionately. “You can never imagine the misery of a man who has bound himself by a fatal tie which chains him to one woman, long after his heart has gone out to another. I gave away my liberty while I was in India, Hilda: pledged myself to one who could give me but little in return for my faith and devotion. I dare not tell you the circumstances of that bondage—the fatality which led to that accursed engagement. I am desperate enough to break the tie, now that it is too late, now that I dare not offer myself to the girl I love, now that my name is blasted for ever. Yes, for ever. I know these narrow-minded rustics, and that to the end of my life I shall in their sight bear the brand of Cain. Here is a fine example of liberal feeling, Hilda.”
He handed her the Rector’s letter, crumpled in his angry grasp.
She read it slowly, tears welling up to her eyes as she read. How hardly the world was using this poor Bothwell! and the harder he was used the more she loved him.
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
“I shall kneel before the altar of my God, as I have knelt before.”
“There will at least be one communicant there who will not shrink from you,” said Hilda softly. “We will kneel side by side, if you like.”
“God bless you, my darling. God help me to clear my name from this foul stain which fools have cast upon it; and then a day may come when you and I may kneel before that altar, side by side, and I may be thrice blest in winning you for my wife.”
There was a brief silence before Hilda murmured, “You have told me that you are bound to another.”
“Yes, and I have told you that I will break through that bondage.”
“Can you do so with honour?”
“Yes. It will be more honourable to cancel my vow than to keep it; and when I am a free man—when this shadow has been cleared from my name—will you take me for your husband, Hilda—a man with his way to make in the world, but needing only such an inducement as your love to undertake the labours of a modern Hercules? Will you have me, Hilda, when I am my own man again?”
“I will,” answered Hilda softly, yet with a firm faith that thrilled him. “I shall have to brave my brother’s anger, perhaps; but I will not wait till your name is cleared from this slander. Of what use is fair-weather love? It is in storm and cloud that a woman’s faith should be firmest. When you have freed yourself from that old tie which has grown a weariness to you, when you can come to me in all truth and honour, my heart shall answer frankly and fully, Bothwell. And then you can tell all our friends that we are engaged. It may be a very long engagement, perhaps. I shall not be of age till two years hence, you know; but that does not matter. People will know at least that I do not suspect you of a crime.”
“My noble girl!” he cried, beside himself with joy.
Never had he thought to find any woman so frank, so generous, so brave. He would have caught her in his arms, pressed her to his passionately beating heart, but she drew herself away from him with a decisive gesture.
“Not until you are free, Bothwell; not until you can tell me that the old tie is broken. Till then we can be only friends.”
“Be it so,” he answered submissively. “Your friendship is worth more to me than the love of other women. Will you walk to Penmorval with me? Dora has been wondering at your desertion.”
“Not today. Please tell Dora that I have not been very well. I will go to see her tomorrow. Good-bye, Bothwell.”
“Good-bye, my beloved.”
They parted at the gate of The Spaniards.
Chapter 7.
A Rapid Conversion.
Three days after that compact between Bothwell and Hilda, an officious friend went out of his way to inform Mr. Heathcote that his sister and Mr. Grahame had been seen together several times of late, and that their manner indicated a more than ordinary degree of intimacy. They had been observed together at the early service on Sunday morning; they had sat in the same pew; they had walked away from the church side by side—indeed, Mr. Heathcote’s friend believed they had actually walked to The Spaniards together.
“It is a shame that such a man as Grahame should be allowed to be on intimate terms with an innocent girl,” said the worthy rustic, in conclusion.
“My dear Badderly, I hope I am able to take care of my sister without the help of all Bodmin,” retorted Heathcote shortly. “Everybody is in great haste to condemn Mr. Grahame; but you must not forget that my sister and I have been intimate with him and his family for years. We cannot be expected to turn our backs upon him all at once, because his conduct happens to appear somewhat mysterious.”
Notwithstanding which kindly word for Bothwell, Edward Heathcote went straight home and questioned his sister as to her dealings with that gentleman.
Hilda admitted that she had seen Mr. Grahame two or three times within the last week, and that she had allowed him to walk home with her after the early service.
“Do you think it wise or womanly to advertise your friendship with a man who is suspected of a most abominable crime?” asked her brother severely.
“I think it wise and womanly to be true to my friends in misfortune—in unmerited misfortune,” she answered firmly.
“You are very strong in your faith. And pray what do you expect will be the end of all this?”
“I expect—I hope—that some day I shall be Bothwell’s wife. I shall not be impatient of your control, Edward. I am only nineteen. I hope during the next two years you will find good reason to change your opinion about Bothwell, and to give your consent to our marriage—”
“And if I do not?”
“If you do not, I must take advantage of my liberty, when I come of age, and marry him without your consent.”
“You have changed your tune, Hilda. A week ago you told me that you and Bothwell would never be married. Now, you boldly announce your betrothal to him.”
“We are not betrothed—yet.”
“O, there is a preliminary stage, is there? A kind of purgatory which precedes the heaven of betrothal. Hilda, you are doing a most ill-advised and unwomanly thing in giving encouragement to this man, in spite of your brother’s warning.”
“Am I to be unjust because my brother condemns a friend unheard? Believe me, Edward, my instinct is wiser than your experience. Why do you not question Bothwell? He will answer you as frankly as he answered me. He will tell you his reasons for refusing to satisfy that London lawyer’s curiosity. O Edward, how can you be so cruel as to doubt him, to harden your heart against him and against me?”
“Not against you, my darling,” her brother answered tenderly. “If I thought your happiness were really at stake, that your heart were really engaged, I would do much: but I can but think you are carried away by a mistaken enthusiasm. You would never have cared for Grahame if the world had not been against him; if he had not appeared to you as a martyr.”
“You are wrong there, Edward,” she answered shyly, her fingers playing nervously with the collar of his coat, the darkly-fringed eyelids drooping over the lovely gray eyes. “I have liked him for a long time. Last winter we used to hunt together a good deal, you know——”
“I did not know, or I should