Chapter V: Forgiven

NO sooner had Arthur Seaton left his little packet where Grace would be sure to find it, than dreadful misgivings seized him. He climbed the rocks at the back of the church and waited there, restless and unhappy, till he saw Grace hurrying away through the fields. Then he was sure that he had been too hasty. He had made a great mistake. She was offended with him. She would never forgive him. He had committed a great impertinence. And his conduct now presented itself to him in the darkest aspects.

Far from enjoying himself on the moor, as Stanley imagined, Arthur wandered about till dusk fell, in a very unhappy frame of mind. He dared not present himself at Torhill, but he kept moving about in its vicinity. If only he could meet her! But of course he did not.

On the following day, it seemed as if his worst fears were realised. Grace had passed a restless night. The thought of the watch and necklet had haunted her like a nightmare. As she dressed, she lashed her mind into fresh indignation with him.

Arthur had a good tenor voice, and it pleased him to sit in the choir. On most Sundays, he had busied himself in finding the places for Grace ere the service began. But to-day, she entered with such a dignified, unapproachable air, that he felt constrained to keep his distance. After church, he got on no better. She spoke to him, indeed, but her manner was absolutely stern. She meant him to understand that she was offended, and he understood it but too well. He was miserable as he went back to the rectory, and could not find harsh enough terms in which to reproach himself for his folly.

Nor was Grace, although she deported herself with such dignity, much happier. Her pride was satisfied, but her heart was not at ease. And she was at a loss as to what she should do next. Now she resolved that she would send the things back to him with a few cold, cutting lines. Then she remembered all his kindness, and accused herself of ingratitude. She did not want to hurt his feelings; she did not want to behave ungratefully, but she did wish him to know that he had done an unwarrantable thing. And then, soft relentings would move her, and she would remember how good and kind he was, and how it was his delight to do everything in his power to make others happy.

During the summer, there was an evening service in Trematon church, but in September, there being no means of lighting the church, this had to be given up, and the second service began at three o'clock. At its close, Grace managed to slip away without exchanging a word with Arthur. She thought she had made up her mind to write to him that evening and inform him that she could not accept the watch and necklet as his gifts.

Grace waited for her brother at the field gate. He was speaking to the Seatons.

"Why were you in such a hurry, Grace?" he said, as he joined her. "Mr. Seaton was asking what had become of you."

"Have you forgotten that I ordered tea early, that we might walk to Widdecombe this evening?" she said.

"Arthur says he is almost sure they have discontinued the evening services there."

"Does he? Well, almost is not quite sure; and at least we shall have a lovely walk."

It was still bright daylight when they set out. The way lay across a high, open moor, where the breeze blew keen, and then down by a charming wooded lane into a fair green valley, whence rose the lofty granite tower of a fine old church, far larger than the size of the little hamlet seemed to warrant. The services of the church were over for the day; they found the door closed, and, after lingering for a while in the churchyard, admiring its beautiful situation, they turned back again.

Stanley thought his sister unusually quiet this evening. Once he asked her if she were tired, but she scouted the idea of fatigue. The road was up-hill nearly all the way to the moor. The sun had disappeared below the hills, and soon it grew dark in the lanes. But they came out into light again at the top of the hill, and the first thing Grace saw was a dark figure leaning over the gate which barred the way. She knew, ere he spoke, that it was Arthur Seaton.

"Good evening," he said, lifting his cap; "you have had your walk, I see, but no service. I came up here with uncle; he has gone into that cottage to visit a sick man. Ah! Here he comes!"

And the rector was seen approaching.

To Stanley's ear Arthur spoke as usual, but Grace detected a nervous constraint in his manner, which told her he was not at ease. She fancied he dared not address her directly, and her spirits rose. Such a power is pride, even in sweet-looking young girls.

"I am glad to meet you, Miss Erith," said the rector, shaking hands with her warmly. "I missed you this morning. Since you talk of leaving us so soon, you must let us see as much as possible of you whilst you remain, though I trust this is not your last visit to Trematon. I hope you will come here very often in the future."

"You are very kind; indeed, I hope I may," replied Grace.

To her vexation, her voice faltered as she spoke. She hoped no one had observed it. She walked on by the side of the rector, determined that he should be her companion all the way back. But it so happened that the rector wished to have a confidential talk with her brother; Stanley was equally desirous of a quiet talk with him, whilst Arthur was determined "to have it out" with Grace. Three wills being thus opposed to hers, it was little wonder that her purpose was frustrated, and she presently found Arthur Seaton by her side, and saw, to her vexation, that the other two, absorbed in their conversation, were striding on ahead.

Her companion showed no desire to overtake them. For some minutes he walked by her side in a silence which Grace felt unable to break.

At last, he said, "So you cannot forgive me. You look upon me as a mean spy and busybody. You feel insulted by my daring to return those things to you."

"No, no, not insulted," faltered Grace. "I know you meant to be kind—but I wish you had not done it."

"Of course, I meant to be kind—people always mean to be kind when they do insufferable things. What a blundering idiot I have been."

"Don't speak so," said Grace, relenting. "You make too much of it, indeed. I ought to thank you."

"Why should you? Thank me for wounding your pride; for giving myself a pleasure to which I had no right. No, indeed. Of course you cannot forgive me."

Grace was silent, but it was not because she could not forgive him. In truth, her annoyance had already melted away.

"You cannot forgive me," repeated Arthur. "I have no right to expect it. I might have known that you cannot look on me as such a friend. If my uncle had done so, it would be different. My uncle takes the warmest interest in you and your brother. Shall I tell you what they are talking about now? Uncle wants to induce Mr. Erith to return to Trematon before long. He would like his help in the parish. I know that already he regards your brother as the future rector of Trematon."

"What can you mean?"

"Simply that the living of Trematon belongs to my uncle. He has long known that I have no inclination to enter the Church, and that being so, I believe he sees in your brother a man after his own heart, whom he would like to succeed him in the care of the parish."

"But he knows so little of Stanley."

"He knows him to be a good, true man, a Christian, and a gentleman. And there is a reason why my uncle feels drawn to you both. Do you know it?"

"I think so," faltered Grace, her heart full. "It is because he knew our mother that Mr. Seaton is so very, very kind to us."

"Because he knew her—because, I believe, he loved her," said Arthur, in a very low tone. "Love explains everything, does it not?"

Grace could not speak. She walked on in silence. The yellow glow of sunset still lingered in the sky. A lofty hill on the right shone with the reflected glory; a tiny pink cloud floated above it; here and there stars began to appear, gleaming like diamonds on the breast of night. The hills, the fields, the steel-blue distance showing beneath the strip of pale, clear sky, all wore the indescribable aspect of peace which marks the close of a lovely summer day. But Grace was scarce conscious of the calm beauty of the scene. She saw only that the others had passed out of sight, and felt nervously anxious to overtake them.

Arthur had something to say first, however.

"I wonder," he began, his tones a little unsteady—"I wonder if love might be held to justify what I have done? Dare I ask you to forgive me on that plea? Perhaps you do not believe in love at first sight. I used to laugh at the idea; but now—now I know that I loved you that day when I saw you in Shears' shop. I loved you then, I have loved you ever since, and I shall always love you. Oh, do speak? Do say if you can forgive me?"

It was very hard for Grace to speak.

"Don't ask it," she said at last. "It is for you to forgive me. I have behaved very badly."

"Indeed you have not. But do you forgive me?"

"Yes, yes."

"Is it because you love me or because I love you?" he asked, his voice full of gladness now.

"For both reasons, I believe," she whispered.

"How pleased my uncle will be," said Arthur, some minutes later.

THE END.