GATHERING CLOUDS.
A CLOUD has fallen upon the little shop in New Street. Stephen
Walker is restless and anxious, for he feels that something is going
wrong. Carry has changed so much during the last three months that
he cannot but notice it. Her bright colour has quite gone now, and
only comes back in sudden starts and flushes. Her manner, too, has
altered even more than her appearance. She, who used to be so lively
and gay, who was always humming scraps of song over her work, has
now become silent and abstracted. If she noticed that her father was
watching her she would break out in a burst of fitful merriment,
talking and laughing in a forced, unnatural way, which was even more
painful than her silence. Stephen Walker was a long time before he
arrived reluctantly at the conclusion that there was something wrong
with Carry. At first he tried hard to persuade himself that the
change existed only in his own imagination—that she was a little
poorly, perhaps, nothing more; but at last he could no longer deceive
himself, there was evidently something mentally, or physically,
altogether wrong with her. Very sadly the old man pondered over the
matter, and wearied himself with conjectures as to what could be the
cause. She had no bodily ill, and quite repudiated any suggestion he
made to that effect. She was perfectly well, she said, and Stephen
Walker at last came to the conclusion it must be upon her mind. It
was evident that nothing could make her unhappy except some love
affair; and if so, with whom could Carry be in love? When this
question was once fairly raised in Stephen Walker's mind he set
himself to watch; but it was a long time after he did so before he
came to any conclusion upon the subject, still longer before he could
make up his mind to speak to her about it. One day, however, when he
came into the shop after a short absence on business, he found the
gentleman he suspected leaning on the counter talking confidentially
with Carry. At the sight of her father she started and coloured
painfully, while the gentleman rose hastily, saying,—
“I have a holiday you see, Mr. Walker.”
Mr. Walker made some general answer and passed into the inner room.
The gentleman left almost immediately; but Carry did not, as was
her custom, come into the parlour, but remained in the shop all the
afternoon. It was not until the shop was closed for the evening,
and Carry had taken her work and sat down, that father and daughter
were together alone. Even then Stephen Walker had difficulty in
approaching the subject, for Carry seemed to feel instinctively what
he wished to speak of, and endeavoured, by talking forcedly upon all
sorts of topics, to keep him from approaching it. At last he took
advantage of a momentary pause in her talk to begin.
“My dear Carry, you know very well that I love you dearly. I am a
poor, nervous creature, my dear, but I cannot but see that you are
not the same as you used to be.”
Carry, with a very pale face, laid down her work when her father
commenced, and she now interposed with a faint protest that she was
quite well.
“My dear Carry, I am not quite sure that I would not rather know
that you are not quite well. You may be, as you say, quite well
bodily; that is, you may be free from any actual illness, but you
are unquestionably changed, you are pale, and nervous, and out of
spirits; it follows then that your illness must be mental. Now, my
dear Carry, if you had a mother you would tell her, and she would
advise you and talk to you as I cannot do. You are very unfortunately
placed, dear—unfortunate in being so much alone, very unfortunate
that the only person upon whom you can rely is a poor nervous man
like myself. But do not think of this, Carry, only think that your
old father loves you with all his heart, only think that your
happiness is his only object in life, and open your heart to him,
dear, as you would to a mother.”
Carry was crying now, kneeling at her father's knees.
“Can't you tell me, Carry?”
She shook her head.
“Perhaps I can guess, dear. I have noticed for months how often Mr.
Bingham comes here, and I have seen you change colour when he comes
in. Is it he, Carry? Do you love him, my child?”
Carry was still crying, but after a pause she said, very low,
“I promised not to tell you, father, but as you have guessed, I can
speak. But please, please, do not let him see that you know. Yes,
father, I do love Mr. Bingham, and he loves me. He has told me so,
but he does not want anyone to know it, because he has no money
of his own, and we must wait. He has a very rich uncle, a Captain
Bradshaw, who lives in Lowndes Square, and who is going to leave
Mr. Bingham a great deal of money, but he dares not offend him by
marrying. He is very old, so we are going to wait. But I promised not
to tell you about it, father. Please do not let him know.”
Stephen Walker was silent for a little time, and then said,
“I wish, Carry, I had known it before. I should have warned—no, not
warned you, dear, but advised you against it before it was too late.
I do not like these long engagements, Carry. They seldom come to
anything. I know the world better than you do, my child. I have not
used my knowledge to much purpose as far as I myself am concerned,
still I can see clearly enough in your case. I had rather it had been
some young clerk, ay, Carry, or even an honest mechanic or small
tradesman that had asked for you. Still, dear, I do not wish to
blight your hopes, but do not build too much upon it; these things
seldom come off.”
“Oh, father,” Carry said, “would you not like to see me a lady, in
a house of my own, where you would always live with us, and have no
more care and trouble? Oh, father, I have thought of that so much.
And this, father, is quite, quite certain to come off.”
“Yes, my child, we always think so, and the disappointment is in
proportion to the hope. No, Carry, a long engagement is always bad;
but when the parties are in different stations of life the chances of
its being broken off are tenfold. However, Carry, we will hope for
the best. But be careful, my child, you know nothing of the world. Do
not encourage him to be here too much. Neighbours will get to talk of
it, and a good name is easily lost; and, although I know my little
Carry too well not to be able to trust her as well, ay, and very much
better, than myself, still, dear, you don't know the world and cannot
be too careful. If you had only had a mother——”
And here Stephen Walker's warnings were put a stop to, for Carry's
face, which had been bent down while he had been speaking, had become
deadly white; her hand was pressed against her heart, and with a half
sob, half cry, she leant forward; and her father, on stooping down,
found that she was insensible. Very poignant were Stephen Walker's
self-reproaches as he ran to get some water and endeavoured to bring
her round.
“That is just like me,” he muttered to himself, “frightening the poor
child, and telling her her love affair would come to nothing. As if
I could not see that she worried enough about it without my making
her worse. What an old fool I am, to be sure. And to think of her
fainting, too—dear, dear.”
And so he wandered on, until, to his intense relief, he saw her open
her eyes. She looked round in a frightened way.
“There, there, my dear; don't worry yourself, Carry. It is all right
now. I have been wrong to frighten you, Carry, very wrong, and I have
no doubt it will all come right. Why shouldn't it? A man who has once
fallen in love with my Carry would not be likely to draw back. No,
no, indeed. I thought I was talking wisdom, Carry, and I was an old
fool after all.”
Carry smiled feebly, and stroked her father's hair as he bent over
her.
“I am better now, father, but I am not very strong. You are quite
right in what you say, as you always are, dear, dear, old father. But
oh, I wish, oh I wish you had spoken before.” Then, after a pause,
she said, “How foolish of me to faint! But I am better now. Kiss me,
father, I will go up to bed.”
After Carry had gone upstairs, Stephen Walker sat for a long time in
the parlour. His thoughts were not pleasant.
“Poor child, poor child!” he said, “I would have given all the little
I have in the world to have saved her this. Why did she not fall in
love with some one of her own station, some one who would have been
proud of my bright, pretty Carry, who would have shown her to his
friends with pleasure and pride? Carry would have been very happy in
such a home as that. And now she must wait for years; and perhaps,
after all, be deserted. For when the time comes friends will step in
and dissuade him, and he will begin to think himself that he might
choose a wife better suited to him than out of a tobacconist's shop.
I hope he is not lying to her. He would, indeed, be a scoundrel who
would lie to such an innocent child as Carry. But, at any rate, I
will see if there is any Captain Bradshaw lives in Lowndes Square;
and will find out, if I can, if he is really Mr. Bingham's uncle.
If so, I shall feel more comfortable, and can wait. Perhaps, after
waiting a bit, Carry too may get tired of it, and may not take it to
heart if it is broken off at last. So, perhaps, no very great harm
may come of it. But I am sorry, I am very sorry.”
If Stephen Walker could have looked into the room where Carry was
lying on the bed, crying passionately, he would have been even more
sorry than he was. For the next two or three days after this talk
Stephen Walker was but little at home; for, having found out by a
Directory Captain Bradshaw's address in Lowndes Square, he watched
there for hours, until, on the third evening, he saw Fred Bingham
enter. Having thus, found out that his story was true so far, he went
home more satisfied.
There was another who was watching Carry as closely and as anxiously
as did her father. She had been very restless lately, and had very
often gone into Mrs. Holl's for a chat. Mrs. Holl was frequently
out, and even when she was at home the conversation was principally
between Carry and the cripple lad. To him Carry was as an angel of
light. He almost worshipped her, and she knew it. Carry liked being
admired, it was her nature; she turned as naturally for admiration as
a flower for light. Besides, she pitied James. Had he been other than
he was, a helpless cripple, Carry might have tossed her head a little
loftily at the idea of an admirer who was an inmate of John Holl's
cottage. As it was, she knew that his feeling had no idea of self in
it, that it was as disinterested an attachment as that of a brother
for a sister. Accordingly, she was very kind to the poor lad; and,
indeed, enjoyed a chat with him greatly. He had read so much, and his
whole current of thought and his earnest talk were so different from
anything she ever met with elsewhere, that she could have listened to
him for hours with pleasure.
The cripple had noticed a change in Carry long before it had been
visible to her father, almost before she had become conscious of it
herself. At first it had been merely an occasional absent manner
while talking to him, a kindling of the eye, a little flush of
colour, as if she were thinking of some pleasant thing. Then James
had sighed deeply, for he felt that she was in love. It was a pain
to him to know that. He knew she could not be for him, he had never
thought it. But as long as she remained as she was he had at least
the pleasure of seeing her often, of knowing that she liked him very
much, that she pitied him, and accepted the homage which he paid her.
If she married, all this would be over. She would be no longer able
to come to see him; the visits which were the great happiness of his
life would cease, and in the love of a husband she would soon forget
the poor cripple, who would have gladly laid down his life to save
her a pang. But, as time went on, the change in Carry had deepened
and altered, and the lad saw that she was anxious and unhappy. James
in vain tried to find some solution of this. The wax-flowers made but
small progress, and the books on mathematics were laid aside. That
Carry should love anyone and not be loved in return seemed to him
impossible. She was so perfectly different from the few women he had
ever seen that he thought every one must see Carry in the light of
an exceptional being, as he did himself. What then could it be which
could make her unhappy?
A few days after her conversation with her father Carry went into the
Holls'. Mother was out, and the children were all away. Carry drew
up a chair to the side of the cripple's table, and, after the first
greeting, sat silently watching him as he worked. James broke the
silence by putting down his work and saying suddenly,—
“Oh, Miss Carry, I do so grieve to see that you are not happy.”
“Not happy, James!” Carry said, starting from her reverie and
colouring deeply; “not happy! What makes you think such an
extraordinary thing as that?”
“There is no thinking about it, Miss Carry,” the boy said, sadly; “I
am as sure of it as I am that I am sitting here. I have watched your
face for so many years that I can read it as I can an open book. Oh,
Miss Carry, I am miserable to see that you are sad, and that I can
do nothing. Had I been like other men I might perhaps have made you
happy. I would have made a place and a name for myself, and I would
have loved you so much that you could not have helped loving me a
little in return. But that was not to be. I am a cripple, and my love
for you is as the love I might have for a dear sister. It is hard on
me then, to know that you are not happy, and to be able to do nothing
but sit here helpless, when I would so willingly give my life if it
could do you good.”
Carry had sat pale and quiet while he was speaking. Then she took his
hand, and said,
“It is better as it is, James. I should never have made such a wife
as you ought to have had. I have always known that you loved me,
always, James, and as a brother I shall always love you. But had you
been a brother, had you been well and strong, you could have done no
good here, James. But you must not think I am unhappy,” she said,
trying to speak cheerfully; “I am rather worried, but it will soon
be over now, and then I shall be very happy. I will tell you then,
James; you shall be one of the first to hear it. You will always love
me, James, whatever comes, won't you?” she asked, wistfully, as she
rose.
“Always, Carry, till I die.”
“You will never judge me harshly, whatever people say, James?”
“Never, Carry; as God hears me, nothing will ever change me.”
“Thank you, James,” she said, “I believe you. God grant you may never
be put to the test.”
And then, leaning over him, she kissed him quietly, and without a
word went out from the cottage.
The next morning Stephen Walker was in the shop with Carry when Fred
Bingham came in for his paper, but he was busy arranging his books,
and did not hear Carry's whispered sentence, “At the old place, this
evening at five.” And then, as he seemed to hesitate, she added in
such an agonised whisper, “You must, you must,” that he nodded assent
as he went out of the shop.
“I wonder what she wants,” he said moodily to himself as he waited
at the end of the street for an omnibus; “the same thing as usual, I
suppose. Bah, I begin to think I have made a fool of myself.”
At the appointed time Carry was walking restlessly backwards and
forwards in a retired part of Kensington Gardens. There the trees
grew thick and close, and through them the Long water could be
seen, with groups of children playing about and throwing food to
the waterfowl. Away to the right the band was playing, and through
the vista of the trees crowds of fashionably-dressed people could
be seen moving slowly to and fro. For some time no one came near
the solitary, restless figure. At last a man approached, whom she
recognised as far as she could see him. Then she stopped walking and
leaned against a tree, with her hand pressed upon her heart as if to
still its beating.
“You're early, Carry. It wants five minutes to the hour. Is anything
the matter?”
“Oh, Fred,” the girl panted out. “Father begins to suspect something;
he has been asking me questions about you, and he sees I am ill. Oh,
Fred, keep your promise to me. You know you swore it, swore it on the
Bible. You said that if your uncle lived, so that you could not marry
me publicly, you would marry me privately in a month. It is three
months now, Fred. Oh, dear, dear Fred, don't put me off any longer!”
“No, Carry, I will not; but you see I have not been able to arrange
matters. You see I never thought the old man would have held on so
long, and then we could have done it publicly; but, as it is, I will
see about getting it done privately.”
“You are not deceiving me, Fred? You have disappointed me so often.
Oh, Fred! if it is found out, what shall I do, what shall I do? I
would much rather die—oh, how much rather. Oh, Fred! marry me in
some out of the way chapel, anywhere. I swear to you that I will
never tell anyone but father till you give me leave, and we will go
away and live anywhere, so that it can never be found out. Only marry
me, Fred, so that I may be able to tell him I am a wife. If not, it
will kill him! Oh, Fred! dear, dear Fred, have pity upon me!”
“Now, my dear Carry, don't be unreasonable. You know how fond I am
of you, and you may be sure that I will keep my word and make it all
right. There, I promise you I will see about it at once, and in a few
days I will write and tell you what the arrangements are. It is no
use your fretting so, Carry, you only make yourself pale and ill.”
“I try not to, Fred; but oh, I am so, so miserable. I have to try to
talk and laugh, and to seem careless and happy, when God knows I am
wishing I was dead. I am obliged to listen and smile when my father
talks to me, and when every kind word hurts me so that I can hardly
help screaming out. I shall go mad, Fred, if it goes on much longer.
You have disappointed me week after week, and month after month;
and though I know so well how you love me, and that you are only
detained for a while from marrying me, still I can't help being very
miserable. But you will not this time, will you? You won't put me off
any more?” she said pleadingly.
“No, no, Carry, I mean what I say. But you don't make allowance
enough for me. I am so harassed, and I have so much to do, and have
been disappointed in—but there, it will all be right now, and before
very long you shall hear from me. I am going into the country on
business, but will make all my arrangements for the affair to come
off as soon as I get back. There, good-bye, Carry, do not fret,
child, it will be all right soon.”
So he kissed her and walked off hastily before she could say anything
more. When he looked round and saw that she was going away in the
opposite direction, he sat down on a bench by the water, and, picking
up some small stones, threw them viciously at the ducks who swam up
to his feet for crumbs. “It is a great annoyance,” he said, “and the
deuce of it is the worst has not come yet. I have a good mind to take
her to some out of the way place and get married and send her away,
as she proposes, into the country, where I could run down and see her
sometimes. I have no doubt she would live quietly enough for years,
and her old fool of a father with her. The betting is ten to one it
would never come out, and would be pleasant enough. But then it is a
nasty risk. Bigamy does not sound well—case of imprisonment. Still
it might be managed somehow, of course after the other. I might get
some one to manage it—get some fellow to act as a registrar, and do
a civil marriage.” And he laughed unpleasantly as he hit a duck upon
the head. “It's lucky her old father is such an arrant idiot. But
there, I can think it over while I am away. I shan't be gone more
than a fortnight, and I will carry out this little drama somehow a
day or two after I get back. I know a billiard marker who would do
well enough, and then all I have got to do is to get them away from
that den into the country. She will never know of the other affair.
They know no one, and she never reads the papers. At any rate it need
not come out for years. Still it is rather a nuisance altogether.
Take that, you little brute.”
The last observation was addressed to a child who had bowled his hoop
against the speaker's legs. Fred Bingham accompanied the words by
taking the hoop and throwing it far out into the middle of the Long
water; and then, with his unpleasant laugh, he strolled off, pursued
by the loud roaring of the child and the indignant scoldings and
threatenings of its nurse.