England -- Fiction; English fiction -- 19th century; Inheritance and succession -- Fiction; Mystery fiction
"Your father!" she repeated contemptuously. "Don't speak of Basil
Beaumont by that name. He has been no father to you, and as for
speaking you can set your mind at rest. He called upon me this
morning, and I soon settled everything."
"He called on you?"
"Yes, with a lot of lies in his mouth, but I threatened to prosecute
him if he did not leave the village, so by this time I think he is out
of the neighbourhood. Don't trouble, my dear, Beaumont will hold his
tongue for his own sake."
"And my mother?"
"I called at Kossiter's as I passed," she answered, "and found your
mother had gone up to London this morning. We must find her out and
give her some money to live on, for after all, whatever part she has
taken in this conspiracy it was for love of you."
"Just what Dr. Larcher said."
"So you see everything is settled," she said joyously, rising from her
knees, "we will be married next week and you will be master of
Garsworth Grange."
Reginald was deeply affected by her noble conduct, and rising to his
feet embraced her fondly.
"You are a noble woman," he said, with tears in his eyes, "but can I
accept this sacrifice?"
"Why will you use such a word?--there is no sacrifice in what I do for
the man I love."
"Remember I bring you nothing."
"You bring me yourself, that is all I want. Let the past be forgotten.
When we are married you will forget all the troubles you have had."
He kissed her, smiling.
"You are my good angel," he said simply.
CHAPTER XLII.
THE DAWN OF A NEW LIFE.
On mount and mere the moonlight lies
Dim shadows veil the western skies,
On every stream the starlight gleams,
And all is mystery and dreams.
But now Night folds her sombre wings.
The lark his morning carol sings,
A rosy, light glows o'er the lawn,
And lo! in splendour breaks the dawn.
It was about a year since the marriage of Una with Reginald, and they
were standing on the terrace of their hotel at Salerno, which
overlooked the sea. Far below lay the blue ocean with its fringe of
white waves breaking on a shore that extended in a curve round the
base of the lofty mountains, the summits of which were clearly defined
against the opaline sky. And what a wonderful sky it was, for the
setting sun had irradiated the pure ether with most gorgeous colours.
Great golden clouds in the west, forming a canopy over the intolerable
brilliance of the sinking sun, melted into a delicate rose colour,
which, rising towards the zenith, imperceptibly dissolved into a cold,
clear blue, out of which peered a few stars. There were some boats on
the sea with their broad sails, and the young couple on the terrace
could hear every now and then the shrill voice of a minstrel singing a
popular Italian air to the sharp notes of the mandolin.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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