Page:Once a Week Volume 7.djvu/33

 28, 1862.] “Oh!” I said, “but I am not going to be married for several years yet. I am determined to be Barbara Hemming’s bridesmaid first.”

Whereat he laughed again shamefully, and protested he had no intention of waiting until Barbara’s betrothed should hear of something to his advantage.

“He has been a curate on 80l. a-year,” said Henry, “for the last ten years, always hoping for something better, and never getting it.”

I now proposed that Henry, who had more money than he knew what to do with, should buy him a living, representing it to come from some unknown friend and benefactor. But, though I had never before thought meanness one of his faults, Henry declined to do this. Ah! we had many lovers’ quarrels, and this was always the fatal cause. At length my parents took part against me, blamed my obstinacy, and declared my nonsense unreasonable. In my despair, I now thought I should be obliged to yield, when my wish was gratified in a most unexpected and extraordinary manner.

One morning my mother received a letter by the post, stating that grandmamma was very ill, and desiring that either mamma or I would go to her at once. We never thought very much of grandmamma’s illnesses: she cried out so frequently, that we could not help recalling to mind the boy and the wolf in the fable. Nevertheless, she had never before sent us an immediate summons of this kind, and even if it could be proved ever so unnecessary grandmamma must not be offended—the call must be obeyed. Mamma could not very well leave home on so short a notice: I must be the one to go.

In a couple of hours my things were packed, and I was ready to start by the next train. It was a long journey, and in its latter part new to me, grandmamma having changed her residence since I had last visited her. Her present abode was quite in the country, about three miles from S railway station, where, she had written, her carriage should be waiting to meet the traveller. I found the journey tedious: the scenery, my chance companions, the book I had brought with me for amusement, all alike dull and uninteresting, and before I reached S I was thoroughly tired and sleepy. I had my senses, however, sufficiently about me to jump out at the right time and place. S was an inconsiderable village station, and I the only passenger who alighted. There, sure enough, stood grandmamma’s carriage, and advancing towards me was her servant, not the same she had when I was last with her, I thought; but it was almost dark, and I was not sure. Having pointed out to him my luggage, “How is grandmamma?” was my question.

“Pretty much as usual, miss,” answered the man, touching his hat respectfully.

“Pretty much as usual!”

The words made me quite indignant. So grandmamma had summoned me all this way, had hurried me from home at a moment’s notice, on a cold, miserable, November day, for just no reason at all. However, the deed was done. Here I was, and wishing myself back again would not transport me thither; there was nothing for it but to make the best of present circumstances. It was, I reflected, very wicked and unnatural of me to be sorry at hearing my venerable relative was no worse than usual, such news ought to be a cause of rejoicing.

Having seen my trunk safely stowed on the box, I stepped inside the carriage, the man mounted, cracked his whip, and we sped along merrily. There was no moon, and the twilight was too far advanced for anything to be gained by gazing out of the window; so, leaning back in one corner, and making myself as comfortable as I could, I had leisure, feeling now no longer sleepy, to indulge my own reflections. What would Henry say when he heard of my sudden journey? I must write by to-morrow’s post to tell him, and perhaps he would come in a few days to fetch me home. If grandmamma was as well as usual, there could be no occasion for my staying long, and it was always dreadfully dull at her house. What should I do with myself? Perhaps there might be some nice people in her new neighbourhood who would take pity on my forlorn estate; but this idea gave me small comfort, since grandmamma always made a point of declaring she invited me to amuse her and not myself. I should have to pet the cat, and talk to her—grandmamma I mean; it was a tom cat, so there is no real ambiguity in the pronoun—and to read aloud all the trials for murder in the newspapers. Grandmamma had a decided taste for murders: manslaughter was insipid twaddle to her, but there was some excitement in a. downright determined murder. What a great deal of embroidery, too, I might get done, only I hated embroidery, and, as I was not going to be married until after Barbara Hemming, there was no occasion to hurry with that set of cambric handkerchiefs.

These and similar thoughts occupied my mind until the coachman descended to open a gate, and I immediately after became aware we had entered the drive up to the house. Dear me! what a blaze of light shone through the windows—they must have thought to honour my arrival by an illumination extraordinary. Grandmamma’s soul must be opening to liberality in her latter days, I thought, as I recollected the solitary candle which, in former times, was all the light vouchsafed to our darkness in the gloomy room, with the old oak furniture, where we used to spend our evenings. Astonishment yet greater was to follow. The carriage was now close to the house, and I could hear distinctly the sound of many voices mingled with merry laughter. Had grandmamma, reported dangerously ill in the morning, assembled a party in the evening to welcome her expected guest? Astounding indeed—the nearest approach to a party I had ever witnessed under her roof, having been the arrival of the clergyman and his wife to partake of a solemn cup of tea, an event signalised by the appearance of two candles instead of one, and an extra plate of bread-and-butter,—otherwise I always found such evenings duller than when grandmamma and I were tête-à-tête together. In my bewilderment I was beginning to feel a great dread lest my aged relation should have suddenly lost her senses—lest this should be the