This will explain why he so suddenly departed from London without communicating to anyone his intention, and why Flora submitted to his request not to mention his purpose, even to one person.
It was night when they reached their destination in a carriage which bore them from the railway station to their new home, and, by the strict injunctions of Mr. Wilton, the housekeeper and one servant only were at the entrance of Harleydale Hall to receive them.
Wilton, with an agitated manner, drew Flora’s arm within his own, and entered the spacious hall. He threw his eyes hurriedly round, and saw at a glance that everything appeared to be much in the same state as when he had quitted it.
The housekeeper an elderly matron, advanced, and, in trembling voice, said--
“Welcome--welcome, sir, home! Welcome to your own! God be praised, you have won your rights!”
“Thank you, thank you, Mrs. Steadfast,” he replied, huskily. “I am glad to see you are still here!”
“Yes, sir, thank Heaven! and, madam, your dear lady, I am so proud----”
“My daughter, my daughter, Mrs. Steadfast--a mere child when last you saw her.”
Flora put aside her veil, that the old servant, who had many a time held her in her arms, should see her face, and the changes that time had made in it.
The housekeeper uttered an exclamation, and muttered--“The very counterpart!” Then she turned to old Wilton, and said--
“But your dear lady, my loved and honoured young mistress, sir; for young she was when last I saw her.”
Wilton removed his hat, and, gazing upwards, said in a low, impressive tone, yet tremulous with intense feeling--
There was a solemn stillness for an instant.
The housekeeper raised her handkerchief to her eyes, and Flora gently stole her hand into her father’s, and pressed it.
Then the old man, with a burst of anguish, hurried up the staircase, and, parting in broken sentences with his daughter for the night, sought the retirement of the room prepared for him, and there battled with his sorrow alone.
Flora, too, passed a part of the night in tears and prayer--tears for the loss of the gentle being she had loved so affectionately, and prayer for an angel-life with her hereafter in the ever-sunny regions of Paradise. Somehow, the form of Hal Vivian was interwoven with her thoughts and her prayers. She wept as her vision brought him to her eyes--she knew not wherefore; and her cheek hushed and burned as in fancy she saw his quiet, earnest gaze bent upon her face.