Page:Once a Week Volume 7.djvu/406

398 long sin; hadn’t I seen her game once before? Why did she come smiling an’ a mincing here every day last winter, worming herself round you, and as sweet as sugar on Master? Wasn’t it that she thought, failing younger men, an auld baronet warn’t to be despised, and that her doll’s face would look well for a ‘my lady?’ Plague take her! An’ there’s that poor weak-eyed curate gone away all in a sudden, an’ what d’ye think Dick Dawson’s mother told me just now? Why that yon Rose had flirted wi’ him, and made him no end of fine promises, an’ then turned him over cool as a cucumber when t’other came. Well, she’ll keep any man alive as gets her, I’ll awand her. She’s as full of creases as an onion.”

“Don’t—don’t—I can’t bear it—oh, Butterworth, I think my heart will break!”

The old woman’s manner changed. She clapped me on the back, and adopted the half-scolding tone by which she was wont to manage my uncle.

“Break! Stuff an’ nonsense, it will none break; hold your noise, Amyce Cloyse, one would think nobody had iver had a bit o’ trouble afore ye. It’s allus the way wi’ woman folks and childer, they mun hev measles, and cowpox, and love-fits, an’ get over ’em, it’s in the natur’ on ’em, and it’s a good thing done wi’. ’Tain’t many as love carries off—lor’, no!—not half so many as die o’ King cough, an’ those few, why they’re better gone, they’re poor weak criturs as has no constitutions. More heart folks have, longer life for ’em, for ’tain’t so soon broken and worsted. Heart makes folk live, and do, and forget; if ane prop breaks down, it clings round ’tother, and ay, Amyce, a true heart allus looks up to the sun, that’s to God, honey, an’ it don’t care then for a trampling heel, not it.”

Rude as was Butterworth’s consolation, it was genuine and wholesome, and, re-invigorated by it, I dare venture to my uncle’s room, and assure him by a silent kiss, that my life’s happiness had not been seriously impaired by a dream of love. Neither of us spoke of what had occurred, but after crying for a few minutes behind his handkerchief, the old man began as usual to fret and scold about the basin of beef-tea, which Stephen had brought up for his luncheon. He had forgotten my sorrow when I did not keep the memory alive by a show of misery. And what would have been the good of doing that?

But my uncle was at heart very kind and pitying to me, and in the first few days of compassion would willingly have conceded anything to my happiness. Was I lonely? I had carte blanche to go into society, and take the foremost place to which my position entitled me. Did I wish friends at home? there was a certain widowed cousin of his, who would be only too happy to come and bear me company. But Butterworth warned me against her. She said there “was never no getting Mrs. Arundel out o’ t’ house when she wor once in, and for her part (Butterworth’s), she was allus wary o’ folks wha left their hats i’ the hall:” so I acted on her hint, and assured my uncle I was perfectly content to remain where, and as I was.

And so I did, despite the pain of witnessing the various preparations of Rose Carmichael’s marriage. I was fortunately supplied with an excuse for declining an invitation to act bride’s-maid by the precarious state of my uncle’s health, and that plea also served to keep me a close prisoner to the Towers for the few weeks that intervened between the announcement and the marriage.

But when the wedding-day came, I could no longer restrain myself. Imprudent as I knew the course to be, I donned my hat and cloak, and stole through the grounds to the village, gaining admittance to the church through a small side door, of which we had the key.

I was hid behind the red curtain of our pew when the wedding train came up the chancel; I could almost have touched the bride as she passed. I saw her folds of satin and lace; the pearl locket at her throat which had doubtless been his gift; the orange flowers amid her luxuriant brown hair. I looked on her face, so beautiful, so cold, so heartless, the face that had robbed me, and I could scarcely restrain a groan. I dared not look at him.

The service was progressing. I was in a trance. I saw him take her hand, I heard the clear tones of his dear voice “for better for worse”—they were kneeling side by side.

Away! I could not bear it, I was maddened, I dared not stay, I could not command myself, I might do something rash! and the red curtain dropped from my hand, and I actually grovelled on the pew floor in agony.

There—they were safe in the vestry. I rearranged my disordered attire, and crept to the side-door. The crowd was round at the other side of the church where the carriages were waiting—only a little beggar-child leaning against a tomb saw me, and she came forward to ask charity. She was a piteous-looking little thing, with pinched, haggard features, and eyes unnaturally large and bright, and when I neglected her appeal she clung to my dress, and entreated me—for the love of God. But I thrust her aside, I was hurrying to avoid detection, and the next moment I had gained the postern in the park wall, and was safe on my way homewards.

At home again—no one had noticed my absence—I was breathless with running, fevered with excitement, and I flung myself down on a low chair in my lady’s boudoir, and covered my face with my hands. How long I crouched there, I know not; the clear red fire in the grate flung a warm light over my clasped hands, chased shadows here and there amid my sandy hair. But I was impervious to heat and light, for I was asleep.

I woke with a start. Some one was bending over me, looking in my face. Eagerly I raised my head. Were not those Hedworth Charlton’s soft brown eyes which met mine? and with what a rare expression of love and tenderness.

My heart beat frantically. Where was I—what had happened? See it was he, standing by the fireplace, and looking at me with an unmistakeable glance of affection, such a glance as two months ago he had cast on Rose Carmichael by the privet hedge, only far softer, more pleading, more tender. Could it only have been a dream about Rose, and the marriage, and everything? Could he at heart care for me still and only for me!me? [sic]