Page:Once a Week Volume 8.djvu/237

. 21, 1863.] memory afterwards!—she was sitting at breakfast with Mr. Leslie, when, looking up, she met his eyes fixed on her with an earnest look she had never seen in them before. He had in his hand a letter which he had just read through, and which he folded up slowly and thoughtfully, and put in his pocket-book. Had she felt less shy she would have asked him if he had had bad news; but as it was, she sat glancing timidly at his face, and waiting for him to speak to her. He did so at last.

“I must go to London by the next train,” he said, “and I shall not be back till Thursday. I must ask Mr. Broughton to take the Wednesday evening service for me. Go and fetch your bonnet while I write to him, and walk down to the station with me.”

She ran upstairs in a moment. He so rarely asked her to go out, excepting on those occasions when their being separate would have excited remark, that her heart beat with pleasure at the prospect of a walk with him. His preparations were soon made. Again, as they stood in the doorway, she caught his eyes intently bent upon her, and tears rose to hers, she knew not why. He took her in his arms, and kissed her again and again. He had left home for a few days at least half a dozen times before, and yet he had never done so. Well! it was a day of wonders.

On her way home she met Mrs. Leslie coming towards the station, full of curiosity to ascertain what urgent business had called her son to London. Milly did not know: she had not asked him. How often is ignorance as irritating as superior knowledge!

“Not asked him!” said Mrs. Leslie, indignantly. “You would let him preach in a surplice without inquiring whether he had taken leave of his senses. When my son lived with me, he never went anywhere without my cognizance. I really wonder at the indifference with which you see him go about his ordinary avocations without attempting to interfere; but to let him leave Trowchester, and not to know what his address is in London: to suffer him to absent himself on a Wednesday evening, too, without remonstrating with him; it is incredible!”

Milly walked on silently. She had been sunning herself in her husband’s kindness, and it was like waking out of a soft, warm sleep to the reality of a winter morning to listen to Mrs. Leslie’s reproaches. She did not content herself with her present grievance alone. It seemed as if her son’s unaccountable absence had aroused a latent ire which she determined to expend upon his wife.

“Then, again, what is the use of a cushion in the pulpit? Robert has never touched it for the last three months. I watch him closely. The last time he struck it with any energy was on the 15th of February. He is losing all his fervour and emphasis. I certainly blame you for not constantly reminding him, as I used to do formerly, that energetic action ought always to accompany a pulpit discourse.”

Milly returned to her own home, but Mrs. Leslie bent her steps to Mr. Wareham’s, in search of information. She found that Mr. Wareham was unaware of any cause for her son’s absence; but he was greatly abstracted and preoccupied when he learnt her tidings, and so evidently anxious that her visit should be a short one, that she was obliged to take her departure without obtaining any clue to what she considered a mystery.

Later in the day, Mr. Wareham presented himself at Mr. Leslie’s house. He saw that Milly had turned deadly pale at his entrance, and he noticed that when she rose from her seat she steadied herself by leaning on the table near her. He, too, was pale. He had caught sight of his face in a looking-glass as he was leaving his own sitting-room, and he knew that it wore an expression which was not its ordinary one. As he sat down opposite to her, he thought, as he had done many times before, if she had been in his home, what a different place that home would have been! Even now, it was not beyond the verge of possibility. Was it likely she cared so very much for Robert Leslie? Would he not shut himself up in his coldness and reserve, if he imagined there was the slightest wavering in her duty? Wareham knew that he was morbidly sensitive on many points, and had seen him quail before a gossiping tongue. He had a plan, and if that plan succeeded, Trowchester would no longer hold him. No matter. There was his brother’s home in Sydney, where he would be welcome: there was a London practice which he could have at little or no sacrifice. His one object attained, the world was all before him to begin again.

“I have ventured to come, Mrs. Leslie,” he said, speaking slowly, “for the purpose of discussing some private business with you. I do not know whether you are aware that shortly before your marriage your mother confided to me a very important circumstance, which she wished to remain unknown to Mr. Leslie.”

Milly assented by gesture; words she could not find.

“Of course, the confidence reposed in me by Mrs. Lane—or rather Mrs. Vining, for such you are perhaps aware was her real name—has been held sacred, and I should not now put myself into communication with her daughter upon the subject, did I not think it my duty to lay before you certain facts connected with the case.”

He paused, in order that his listener might speak: he was sure he heard her heart beating: an old story about a rattlesnake and a bird came into his head as he saw her sitting breathlessly waiting for what was to come.

“Shortly after, Mrs. Vining, acting upon my advice, had written to her husband; he applied to me under circumstances of great distress. He had been seized with illness: he knew his wife’s inability to aid him at the time, and he felt sincere regret for the evil he had already brought upon his family. I was glad, for your mother’s sake, to be able to help him in his trouble, and I have since provided him with the means of support. I did not inform your mother of Mr. Vining’s application to me, because I knew, in the position in which she had placed herself with regard to Mr. Leslie, it was impossible for her to act openly in the matter, and her health was then fast failing her.”

“Oh, thank you! thank you! Mr. Wareham,”