position in which my brother and I are placed through no fault of our own: our old home is sold, our fortunes have gone utterly, and our honourable name is tarnished. At the present moment I have nothing left in the world except the sum of two hundred pounds which I had saved for a purpose of my own out of my allowance. I have no profession and cannot even take my degree, because I am unable to afford the expense of remaining at college.”
“Black, I must say, very black,” murmured Mr. Beach, rubbing his chin. “But under these circumstances what can I do to help you? You must trust in Providence, my boy; it never fails the deserving.”
“This,” answered Leonard, nervously; “you can show your confidence in me by allowing my engagement to Jane to be proclaimed.” Here Mr. Beach waved his hand once more as though to repel some invisible force.
“One moment,” continued Leonard. “I know that it seems a great deal to ask, but listen. Although everything looks so dark, I have reliance on myself. With the stimulus which my affection for your daughter will give me, and knowing that in order to win her I must first put myself in a position to support her as she should be supported, I am quite convinced that I shall be able to surmount all difficulties by my own efforts.”
“Really, I cannot listen to such nonsense any longer,” broke in Mr. Beach angrily. “Leonard, this is nothing less than an impertinence. Of course any understanding that may have existed between you and Jane is quite at an end. Engagement! I heard of no engagement. I knew that there was some boy and girl folly between you indeed, but for my part I never gave the matter another thought.”
“You seem to forget, sir,” said Leonard, keeping his temper with difficulty, “that not six months ago you and I had a long conversation on this very subject, and decided that nothing should be said to my father of the matter until I had taken my degree.”
“I repeat that it is an impertinence,” answered Mr. Beach, but with a careful avoidance of the direct issue. “What! You, who have nothing in the world except a name which you father has—well—tarnished—to use your own word, you ask me for my dear daughter’s hand? You are so selfish that you wish not only to ruin her chances in life, but also to drag her into the depths of your poverty. Leonard, I should never have thought it of you!”
Then at last Leonard broke out.
“You do not speak the truth. I did not ask you for your daughter’s hand. I asked you for the promise of it when I should have shown myself worthy of her. But now there is an end of that. I will go as you bid me but before I go I will tell you the truth. You wish to use Jane’s beauty to catch this Jew with. Of her happiness you think nothing, provided only you can secure his money. She is not a strong character, and it is quite possible that you will succeed in your plot, but I tell you it will not prosper. You, who owe everything to our family, now when trouble has overtaken us, turn upon me and rob me of the only good that was left to me. By putting an end to a connection of which everybody knew, you stamp me still deeper into the mire. So be it, but of this I am sure, that such conduct will meet with a due reward, and that a time will come when you will bitterly regret the way in which you have dealt with your daughter and treated me in my misfortunes. Good-bye.”
And Leonard turned and left the room and the Rectory.
CHAPTER II
THE SWEARING OF THE OATH
Arthur Beach, Jane’s brother, was standing in the hall waiting to speak to Leonard, but he passed without a word, closing the hall door behind him. Outside snow was falling, though not fast enough to obscure the light of the moon which shone through the belt of firs.
Leonard walked on down the drive till he neared the gate, when suddenly he heard the muffled sound of feet pursuing him through the snow. He turned with an exclamation, believing that the footsteps were those of Arthur Beach, for at the moment he was in no mood for further conversation with any male member of that family. As it chanced, however, he found himself face to face not with Arthur, but with Jane herself, who perhaps had never looked more beautiful than she did at this moment in the snow and the moonlight. Indeed, whenever Leonard thought of her in after-years, and that was often, there arose in his mind a vision of a tall and lovely girl, her auburn hair slightly powdered over with the falling flakes, her breast heaving with emotion, and her wide grey eyes gazing piteously upon him.
“Oh! Leonard,” she said nervously, “why do you go without saying good-bye to me?”
He looked at her awhile before he answered, for something in his heart told him that this was the last sight which he should win of his love for many a year, and therefore his eyes dwelt upon her as we gaze upon one whom the grave is about to hide from us for ever.
At last he spoke, and his words were practical enough.
“You should not have come out in those thin shoes through the snow, Jane. You will catch cold.”
“I wish I could,” she answered defiantly, “I wish that I could catch such a cold as would kill me; then I should be out of my troubles. Let us go into the summer-house; they will never think of looking for me there.”
“How will you get there?” asked Leonard; “it is a hundred yards away, and the snow always drifts in that path.”
“Oh! never mind the snow,” she said.
But Leonard did mind it, and presently he hit upon a solution of the difficulty. Having first glanced up the drive to see that nobody was coming, he bent forward and without explanation or excuse put his arms around Jane, and lifting her as though she were a child, he bore her down the path which led to the summer-house. She was heavy, but, sooth to say, he could have wished the journey longer. Presently they were there, and very gently he laid her on her feet again, kissing her upon the lips as he did so. Then he took off his overcoat and wrapped it round her shoulders.
All this while Jane had not spoken. Indeed, the poor girl felt so happy and so safe in her lover’s arms that it seemed to her as though she never wished to speak, or to do anything for herself again. It was Leonard who broke the silence.
“You ask me why I left without saying good-bye to you, Jane. It was because your father has dismissed me from the house and forbidden me to have any more to do with you.”
“Oh, why?” asked the girl, lifting her hands despairingly.
“Can’t you guess?” he answered with a bitter laugh.
“Yes, Leonard,” she whispered, taking his hand in sympathy.
“Perhaps I had better put it plainly,” said Leonard again; “it may prevent misunderstandings. Your father has dismissed me because my father embezzled all my money. The sins of the father are visited upon the children, you see. Also he has done this with more than usual distinctness and alacrity, because he wishes you to marry young Mr. Cohen, the bullion-broker and the future owner of Outram.”
Jane shivered.
“I know, I know,” she said, “and oh! Leonard, I hate him!”
“Then
