Page:Once a Week Jul - Dec 1859.pdf/385

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ONCE A WEEK*

twenty-five and  fifty,  got  into  the  carriage  with the air  of  one  who  did  not  see  me. He pat  his bag within  an  inch  of  my  legs,  and  when  I moved took no  notice  of  the  fact; he  arranged  himself and several  small  parcels  with  so  perfect  an appearance  of  being  alone,  that  I had  suddenly  a disagreeable  sense  of  being  invisible,  and  I found myself choking  a cough  lest  I should  disturb  my companion. He spoke  to  the  porters,  and  inquired the hour  of  arrival  at  Newport. It was  comforting to learn  from  this  that  I should  not  have  my  un- conscious companion all  the  way  to  Beachly. I had not recovered  from  the  peculiar  sensations  excited by this  person  when  another  station  was  reached.

As we  slackened  our  pace  I saw  a lady  on the  platform,  whose  sudden  animation  as  our carriage passed  her  was  evidently  a recognition  of my  companion. But his  countenance  exhibited  no emotion,  not  until  this  lady  spoke,  and  said: “0, Leslie!” did he  appear  to  be  aware  of  his  being known.

“Terese!” he answered,  with  a slightly  foreign accent, and  opening  the  door  was  in  an  instant  at her  side. She was  accompanied  by  an  elderly woman whom  I took  for  her  servant. This person proceeded to  place  a shawl  on  the  seat  opposite  to my  companion,  and  in  another  moment  Terese  got in. The step  was  of  an  impossible  height.

“Will you  take  my  hand?”  I said. She thanked me,  and  got  in  with  my  help.

Her “thank  you ” was  gentle; her  smile— though it  was  more  given  to  the  seat  of  the  car- riage than to  me — was  extraordinarily  sweet; and her “Now,  Leslie,”  made  me  feel  that  the  so- called was  an  insolent  fellow,  though  my  reason for so  sudden  a verdict  would  not  be  very  easy  to give. In an  instant  we  were  off,  and  in  another instant I had  begun  to  feel  myself  again  invisible; and with  such  force  did  the  sensation  cling  to  me, that I felt  the  discomfort  increasingly. I was annoyed, unhappy,  and  I became  nervous. I wondered if  I should  get  to  the  end  of  the  journey alive; was I losing  my  personal  identity? Another and another  station. We stopped  ten  minutes  for refreshment. The elderly  woman  came  to  the door. A cup of  coffee  in  her  hand.

“Have some  coffee,  Leslie?”

“Yes, Terese.”

“Nugent! another.”

The woman  brought  another. I jumped out  of the  carriage,  drank  a glass  of  sherry  in  some  soda- water. To get  in  I had  to  come  to  their  side  of  the carriage. The man  held  his  empty  coffee-cup towards me  as  if  I had  been  one  of  the  waiters. An impulse— of  generous  kindness  I hope — made me take  it. Terese blushed,  not  rosy  but  deep-red — red, like  a damask  rose. A strong emotion  of anger  took  hold  of  me. It all  passed  in  a moment. But astonishment  at  his  insolence— at  his  ^alm indifference, though  he  was  gazing  with  a smile  on her  agitated  form; and  my  perception  and  inex- pressible admiration of  her  great  beauty,  as  she raised towards  me  the  face  that  a very  thick  veil had shaded  till  now,  all  in  that  moment  mingled with my  anger — my  anger  which  so  suddenly vanished — fled for  ever — leaving  only  admiration behind, as  she  said: “Forgive  us,  sir; my  hus- band is blind!”

[November 5,  1859.

“What have  I done?”  asked  Leslie,  emotion- less no longer.

I jumped into  the  carriage,  and  we  were  off again. A cry from  the  platform — a woman  help- lessly running, with  her  arms  stretched  out towards us.

“Nugent is  left  behind!” cried  the  lady. As the woman  said  afterwards,  somehow  she  did  not think the  train  would  start  till  she  had  taken master's coffee  cup. The blind  man  was  dis- tressed.

“You will  have  so  much  trouble  at  Newport, Terese; such quantities  of  luggage. I know where it  all  is: but  I am  so  vexed.”

The woman  made  light  of  it. “01 shall  get on capitally. Don't mind. You must  stay  in the  waiting-room. I will manage  it  alL”

“I was  so  glad  to  see  you,”  he  said;  “and now I wish  you  had  not  come.”

She turned  to  me  pleasantly: “I was  to  have met Mr.  Barrington  at  Newport,  where  we  are  to   leave  the  railway: we  are  staying  with  friends  in that  neighbourhood. But I thought  the  journey would be  so  long  for  him  alone,  that  I could  not;;; resist my  wish  to  meet  him; so  Nugent  and  I started  early,  and  we  met  as  you  saw.”

“I have to  stay  half  an  hour  at  Newport,”  I answered; “I hope  you  will  let  me  be  of  service to you.”

She had  told  me  their  name. I had my  carpet-; bag, with  my  full  direction  in  easily  read  letters on the  white  canvas  cover,  on  the  seat  before  me.! She read  it  as  I ceased  speaking.;

“‘Reginald Deane!*  My  father  had  a friend  j! of  that  name,  a man  of  large  property; he  was! fond of  literature  and  antiquities. He lived  a ' great part  of  his  life  in  Germany. There my father  lived. I was born  in  Germany; Leslie, too, was  bora  there — at  Heidelberg.”

There was  such  music  in  her  voice,  such  sweet- ness in  her  upturned  face,  I was  sorry  that  the husband of  this  beautiful  young  woman  could  not; see what  I saw. I wondered if  he  could  guess  at her  great  loveliness — if  he  had  any  correct  idea  of  ; a mingled gentleness  and  majesty  that  seemed to me  to  distinguish  her  from  all  other  beauties  of  I her  age  and  sex  that  I had  ever  had  the  luck  to  i look  upon. She ceased  speaking,  and  I said:

“That Reginald  Deane  was  my  uncle. His property was  divided  by  seven  when  he  died,  and one such  portion  came  to  me.”  I 1

The blind  man  spoke: “My  wife’s  father's name  was  Leslie; I was  called  after  him: we  are cousins. We had  been  engaged  to  be  married! almost from  childhood. Was she  not  good  to  i keep  her  word? Two years  before  our  marriage I went to  the  West  Indies,  and  by  my  own  folly  I had  a sun-stroke  there. I always think  that  my  blindness  grew  out  of  that. I was very  ill  for  a! year  and  a half,  suffering  from  painful  variations of sight. Then I woke  one  morning,  and  knew  I was  awake,  yet  all  was  dark! She married  me, nevertheless.”

Scream went  the  whistle — “Newport,  Newport. Change for  Beachly.”  Here  we  were  then. The blind Mr.  Barrington  collected  all  his  parcels, jumped out,  helped  his  wife,  and  said,  “Where  is Mr.  Deane?”