Page:Once a Week June to Dec 1863.pdf/525

 . 31, 1863.] One day when we were all out together, Kate and papa behind, William and I in advance, my lover suddenly drew up his horse, sprang to the ground, stooped, and then, holding up a pocket-book, cried, “Look here, Miss Morton!” I did look in considerable amazement, as I had distinctly seen him draw the pocket-book from his bosom, put it on the ground, and then take it up again. My father riding up, asked what was the matter. William exhibited the pocket-book, saying he had just picked it up. My father advised him to open it and see if the name of the owner was inside. He complied, and they examined it together. There was no name. The book contained a roll of bank-notes; and William, observing that they must advertise it, put it in his pocket. You will wonder that all this time I continued silent. But remember how young I was, and how shy. Besides, I had not the slightest idea what it could all mean; that there was a mystery—a secret—which Deloraine wished to veil under this apparent trouvaille, I believed, and since he had not intended to take me into his confidence, I fancied it would be dishonourable to betray him. For his part he had not noticed my silence, but re-mounting, began to chat gaily on indifferent subjects, and was even more than usually fascinating and attractive.

A few days afterwards an advertisement appeared in the local papers stating that a gentleman had found a pocket-book on H Hill, containing bank-notes, and that they would be restored to the owner on application, provided he could describe the contents of the book, and tell the numbers of the notes. This advertisement appeared daily during the remainder of our stay at the sea-side. My father remarked that Deloraine’s honesty put him to a great expense, and that it was singular no one claimed the pocket-book; then we took no further notice of the matter, though I secretly wondered what it could mean.

Once more before we left our sea-side home, Deloraine urged me to become his wife secretly. He was sure, he said, that my father would forgive me when once we were married; and I also should have been sure of that; indeed, I believed he would not have refused his assent at all, even though Deloraine was (as he avowed) poor; for I was a rich Welsh heiress, as you know. However, my lover was as strangely timid as I was confident in my beloved father’s goodness; and would have me keep his secret, and wait. Thus we parted without any engagement having been made between us.

I found my home in the Welsh valleys dismal enough when I returned to it. I missed the animation of the bathing-place; the society of bonny Kate; the sentimental devotion of her brother. Without excitement, without employment, I grew weary of my dull existence, and called my ennui disappointed love. After all, my dear, if the busy young ladies of this part of the century don’t do much real good to others, they do something for themselves in keeping their minds employed. It is astonishing how much foolish love imaginations are thus kept in check. As for me, I gave way to the vainest regrets and the most profitless day-dreaming. I cast from me God’s great gift of time sinfully, recklessly—my sole occupation being that of writing long letters to Kate, which she rarely answered. But one cannot be idle and discontented with impunity. I was naturally delicate, and I began to pay for my vain imaginings the tax of loss of health and good looks. My poor father was alarmed for me. He called in a physician, and as the doctor could not detect the real cause of my lassitude, he judiciously banished me, and sent me again to the sea-side. We had only been absent from it five months. It was March (close to the assize time) when we again took possession of our former lodgings; but much had happened during that period to “startle” the place “from its propriety.” My maid came to undress me the night of our arrival, quite eager to communicate her news.

“Oh, ma’am,” she cried; “you remember the Miss Deloraine you used to ride with when we were last here, and her brother?”

“Of course,” I replied, with a beating heart. “What of them?”

“Well, ma’am, they say Mr. William is taken up for forgery, and will be hanged.”

I nearly fainted; but my pride upheld me in my servant’s presence.

“What nonsense!” I said; “how can you repeat such idle scandal.”

“Well, I don’t believe it, of course; but the poor gentleman is in prison at A on the charge. They say that no end of forged notes have been passed here, and all have been traced back to Mr. Deloraine, his servant, or the ladies.”

I was horror-struck. I did not believe it: still I doubted. I had not heard from Kate for a long time, and assuredly there must be some ground of suspicion to cause William’s detention in prison, if he were really there. When I saw my father next morning I told him Sarah’s tale. He was greatly astonished, and declared he would ascertain its truth by riding over to A after breakfast.

How long, how miserable the hours were till he returned! But he came with a bright face: his heart relieved from a load of kind anxiety.

“It is quite true that the poor lad is in prison,” he said, in reply to my eager inquiries; “but by a mere accident. You remember his finding a pocket-book? Well, he was so imprudent—being pressed for money, he says—as to use some of those notes, intending to keep the numbers, and return the amount he spent, if they were ever claimed; but they proved to be forged; and he is taken up for passing them. He had actually directed his lawyer to appeal to us as witnesses of the manner in which he obtained them, and the letter is gone to Bryn Gellert.”

My heart ceased beating for the moment as I remembered how I had seen Deloraine take the book from his own bosom; but I was quite silent. Between horror and fear I could not speak.

My father continued:

“I have promised, of course, to appear for him; and probably you may be called on—”

“Oh! don’t let them call me! I can’t—I can’t,” said I, in an agony.

“Well, of course, it is unpleasant for a young lady to appear in a court of justice, and if I can