AN UNLOOKED-FOR RELEASE.
VERY early on Monday, the Golds’ governess took her departure from Huntsdean. The train bore her away through the pleasant southern counties while the dew was still shining on the meadows. On and on it went; past cottages, standing amid fruit-laden trees, and gardens where Michaelmas daisies were in bloom; past yellow fields, where the corn was falling under the sickles of the reapers. Hedges were gay with Canterbury bells and ragged robins. Here and there were dashes of gold on the deep green of the woods. Eve Hazleburn, quiet and tearless, looked out upon the smiling country, and bade it a mute farewell.
Afterwards, two carriages laden with luggage drove out of the village, taking the road that led to the neighbouring seaport town. The first contained the two little Channells and their nurses; in the second sat Rhoda and Nelly. And before the vehicles were out of sight, Robert Channell had turned his steps in the direction of the curate’s lodging.
He met the young man in the lane outside the sexton’s cottage, and gave him a kindly good morning.
“I am the bearer of startling news, Morgan,” he said, slipping a little note into his hand. “Let us come under the shade of the churchyard trees. And now, Morgan, before you read the note, I want to ask you to forgive my Nelly.”
“Forgive Nelly!” stammered the curate, thinking that if all could be known it would be Nelly’s part to forgive him.
“Yes,” the father answered. “Try to think of her as a dear, foolish child who has made a grave mistake. She has sent me to break off her engagement with you, Morgan. She begs you, through me, to forgive her for any pain that she may cause you. She wants you to remember her kindly always, but neither to write to her, nor seek to see her again.”
The curate was silent for some moments. No suspicion of the truth crossed his mind. He concluded, not unnaturally, that he had been too quiet and grave a lover for the bright girl. That was all.
When he spoke, his words were very few. Perhaps Nelly’s father respected him none the less because he made no pretence of great sorrow. His face was pale, and his voice trembled a little, as he said quietly,—
“If you will come into my lodging, Mr. Channell, I will give you Nelly’s letters and her portrait. She may like to have them back again without delay.”
They walked out of the churchyard, and down the lane to the sexton’s cottage. And then Morgan left Mr. Channell sitting in the little parlour, while he went upstairs to his room.
The hour of release had come. He took out a plain gold locket, which had always been worn unseen, and detached it from its guard. He opened it, and looked long and sadly at the fair face that it contained. It was a delicately-painted photograph, true to life; and locket and portrait had been Nelly’s first gift. The smile was her own smile, frank and bright; the brown eyes seemed to look straight at the gazer. “O Nelly,” he said, kissing the picture, “why couldn’t I love you better? Thank God for this painless parting! No wonder that you wearied of me, dear; you will be a thousand times freer and happier without me.”
Presently he came downstairs, and entered the parlour with the locket and a little packet of letters. These he gave silently into Mr. Channell’s hands.
“Morgan,” said Robert Channell, “I am heartily sorry for this. Don’t think that I shall cease to feel for you as a friend, because I cannot have you for a son-in-law.”
“I shall never forget all your kindness,” Morgan answered, in a low voice. “But I shall soon leave this place, Mr. Channell.”
“Better so, perhaps,” Robert responded. “You ought to labour in a larger sphere. You have great capacities for hard work, Morgan.”
Then the two men parted with a close hand-shake. And Mr. Channell looked back to say, almost carelessly,—
“My family have migrated to Southsea for a month or two. I follow them to-morrow.”
It would be too much to say that the curate “regained his freedom with a sigh.” Yet certain it is that this unlooked-for release set his heart aching; it might be that his amour propre was slightly wounded, for was it not a little hard to find that the girl for whom he had been making a martyr of himself could do very well without him? He had climbed the height of self-sacrifice only to find deliverance. The spirit of sacrifice had been required of him, but the crowning act was not demanded.
He read Nelly’s note again. It was a very commonplace little letter, written in a sloping, feminine hand. She used that stereotyped phrase which, hackneyed as it is, does as well or better than any other, “I feel we are not suited for each other.” This was the sole excuse offered for breaking the engagement, and surely it was excuse enough.
How could he know that these few trite sentences had been written in the anguish of a woman’s first great sorrow? We don’t recognise the majesty of woe when it masquerades in every-day garments. It needs a Divine sight to find out the real heroes and heroines of life. If Morgan had been questioned about Nelly, the term “heroine” would have been the very last that he would have applied to her. And yet Nelly, quite unconsciously, had acted in the true spirit of heroism.
By-and-by the sense of relief began to make itself felt, and Morgan’s heart grew wonderfully light. He went through his usual routine of duties, and then took his way to the rectory. He must give the rector timely notice of his intention to resign his curacy.
Meanwhile Robert Channell had proceeded to Laurel House. Mrs. Gold received him in a depressed manner. Her governess, she said, had left her; and she seemed to consider that Miss Hazleburn had used her unkindly. She did not know how such a useful person could be replaced. Nobody would ever satisfy her so well as Miss Hazleburn had done. Yes, she could give the governess’s address to Mr. Channell. She had chosen to go to Warwickshire, to live with an invalid lady. Mrs. Gold hoped she would find the post unbearably dull, and return to her former situation.
“There is little probability of that,” thought Robert Channell, as he went his way with the address in his pocket-book. And then he thought of Nelly’s face and voice when she had stated her intention of giving up Mr. Myrtle’s legacy to Eve.
“I won’t keep anything that isn’t fairly mine,” she had said; “let her have both the lover and the money.”
Eve never ceased to wonder how the Channells had found out that Mr. Myrtle had owed her father three thousand pounds.
October had just set in when Eve and Morgan met again. It was Sunday morning, and she was on her way to that beautiful old church which is the chief glory of the city of C——. The bells were chiming; the ancient street was bright with autumn light; far above them rose the tall spire, rising high into the calm skies.
They said very little to each other at that moment. A great deal had already been said on paper, and they could afford to be quiet just then. Together they entered the church, a happy pair of worshippers, “singing and making melody in their hearts to the Lord.” “A thousand times happier,” Eve remarked afterwards, “than we could ever have dared to be if another had suffered for our joy.”