Page:Once a Week, Series 1, Volume II Dec 1859 to June 1860.pdf/15

2 Sumner at Miss Hilditch’s. Can’t you give lessons, or do anything? I’m sure you could, so clever as you are, do something.”

“My dear Jenny, you don’t understand these things. When a man has once chosen his profession or trade, he had better stick to it; he’ll have so much to learn in his new calling; so many competitors, that it’s a hundred to one if he succeeds. I chose to go to sea like a fool—I’ve learnt my business like a man—and I mean to keep to it like a wise man. There now, Jenny, only three years and it’s all done—money and fame in three years! Cheer up! don’t make it worse for me, for I feel it not a little.”

She saw he did feel it by the gathering moisture of his eye.

“After all, it’s for the best, Jenny, dear.”

So said Jane’s father; so said her mother: and she?—she was silent.

The three weeks soon passed—too soon. Poor Jenny tried hard to be cheerful, but now and then would look at the fine handsome face of her lover and feel it so hard that he must go away for so long—

And dearer still he grew, and dearer,

E’en as the parting hour grew nearer.

The last day came, and her mother contrived to leave them alone together more than was customary; “his last day,” she said, and called to mind her own experience of some five-and-twenty years ago. Jenny bore her burden bravely. Not a tear was seen except by George—he was quieter than usual.

“You wontwon’t [sic] sail on a Friday, George? I think it’s such a bad day; so many ships are lost that sail on Fridays.”

“I don’t know, I’m sure; but I don’t really think it makes much difference, Friday or any other day.”

“But it is unlucky, and I dreamt this morning of a wedding, and all the people were in white. It’s dreadfully unlucky, that it is.”

“Why, what a little goose it is; why is that unlucky?”

“I don’t know, but they say it is.”

“Who says so?”

“Old Mrs. Crace; and her husband was a sailor”

And here Jenny looked as if she would like to say something more.

“Well! say on, Jenny.”

“I’ve got something for you—it will keep you from being drowned;” and her little hand was inserted in her pocket, and brought out as its captive a small bag of silk, with cord enough to go round the neck, attached.

“What is it, dearest?”

“I can’t tell you; but, indeed, she said it would prevent your being drowned. Do wear it. Her husband always wore one, and he died in her arms, as I should like you to die in mine, if you must die first. Do wear it?” “O yes, I’ll wear it; but you can tell me what it is, aye? What is it?” And he looked into her face. “Come, tell me.”

“It was old Mrs. Crace gave it me; she’s been attending Charlotte Golding, who was married this time last year; she said, she was sure it was a good thing, and made me promise to give it you, so I made the bag, and here it is. Do wear it.”

“Certainly I will, as I’d wear anything you’d like me to; but still I should like to know what this charm is.”

“Old Mrs. Crace said that the doctor laughed at her when she told him about her husband having one.”

“Old Mrs. Crace!—the doctor! Why, what does it mean! O, I see! how stupid I am. Mrs. Golding has a baby, hasn’t she? Ah, yes! I understand. I’ll wear it.”

“Thanks, dear George. She says, she’s sure her husband would have been drowned if it hadn’t been for that.”

“Now, George, my boy, the chaise is here; come along.”

He came out of the room, she clinging to him, and shook hands with them all and went down stairs.

“Don’t look back—don’t look back;” and one after another the shoes of the sisters are thrown after him for luck.

“Look out, George!” said his brother William from the top of the stairs, “here’s Jane’s coming!” and he seized the slipper from her foot and flung it.

George heard him, and turned.

“There, Jane, he’s caught the slipper, and kissed it, and taken it with him.”

“Oh! William! William! you’ve killed me! He looked back, and you made him. Oh! my God! my God! he’s gone—quite gone, now! I shall never see him again!—never!—never!” and Jenny sank into their arms fainting.

“What made you promise Arabella that beautiful orange-blossom wreath? you’ll want it when he comes home.”

“No, Charlotte, I shall never want it; he’ll never come back. Old Mrs. Crace said one day, before he left, it was a sure sign of bad luck if the shoe did not strike the person on the back; but that if he looked back it was worst of all. I didn’t throw mine, for fear, and then for William to do it! O dear! it makes me so sad.”

“Nonsense, child! he’ll come back soon enough. You’ll just be two-and-twenty, that’s a year younger than I was when I married Mr. Golding.”

“No, Charlotte! he’ll never come back!—never! Oh! William! William!”

“Don’t be silly; what has that to do with it? I’ve no patience with you giving away all your nice things.”

Time passed; three years went by, and Jane was paler. The winter of ’48 had come; Jane had learned to hate snow—had grown irritable—unsociable; slapped the children; scolded the servants; read many tracts on the vanity of life, and talked of joining the chapel, to her father’s great indignation. One of her sisters had been married; Jane had said spiteful things about her; Jane was not a family favourite; Jane was unhappy; the more she read the worse she became.

Just then a wealthy suitor of the old school