THE CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE.
Walter Clifford and Mary sat at a late breakfast in a little inn that
looked upon a lake, which appeared to them more lovely than the lake of
Thun or of Lucerne. He beamed steadily at her with triumphant rapture;
she stole looks at him of wonder, admiration, and the deepest love.
As they had nothing now to argue about, they only spoke a few words at a
time, but these were all musical with love.
To them, as we dramatists say, entered Mrs. Easton, with signs of hurry.
"Miss Mary--" said she.
"Mrs. Mary," suggested Walter, meekly.
Mrs. Mary blew him a kiss.
"Ay, ay," said Mrs. Easton, smiling. "Of course you will both hate me,
but I have come to take you home, Mistress Mary."
"Home!" said Mary; "why, this feels like home."
"No doubt," said Mrs. Easton, "but, for all that, in half an hour we
must start."
The married couple remonstrated with one accord, but Mrs. Easton was
firm. "I dreamed," said she, "that we were all found out--and that's a
warning. Mr. Walter, you know that you'll be missed at Clifford Hall, and
didn't ought to leave your father another day. And you, Miss Mary, do but
think what a weight I have taken upon my shoulders, and don't put off
coming home, for I am almost shaking with anxiety, and for sure and
certain my dream it was a warning, and there's something in the wind."
They were both so indebted to this good woman that they looked at each
other piteously, but agreed. Walter rang the bell, and ordered the
four-wheeler and his own nag.
"Mary, one little walk in that sweet garden."
"Yes, dear," said Mary, and in another moment they were walking in the
garden, intertwined like the ivy and the oak, and purring over their
present delights and glowing prospects.
In the mean time Mrs. Easton packed up their things: Walter's were
enrolled in a light rug with straps, which went upon his saddle. They
left the little inn, Mary driving. When they had gone about two miles
they came to cross-roads.
"Please pull up," said Mrs. Easton; then turning to Walter, who was
riding ridiculously close to Mary's whip hand, "Isn't that the way to
Clifford Hall?"
"It's one way," said he; "but I don't mean to go that way. How can I?
It's only three miles more round by your house."
"Nurse," said Mary, appealingly.
"Ay, ay, poor things," said Mrs. Easton. "Well, well, don't loiter,
anyway. I shall not be my own woman again till we're safe at the farm."
So they drove briskly on, and in about an hour more they got to a long
hill, whence they could see the Gilberts' farm.
"There, nurse," said Mary, pouting a little, "now I hope you're content,
for we have got safe home, and he and I shall not have a happy day
together again."
"Oh yes, you will, and many happy years," said Mrs. Easton. "Well, yes, I
don't feel so fidgety now."
"Oh!" cried Mary, all of a sudden. "Why, there's our gray mare coming
down the hill with the dog-cart! Who's that driving her? It's not papa. I
declare it's Mr. Hope, come home safe and sound. Dear Mr. Hope! Oh, now
my happiness is perfect!"
"Mr. Hope!" screamed Mrs. Easton. "Drive faster, for Heaven's sake! Turn
your horse, sir, and gallop away from us as hard as you can!"
"Well, but, Mrs. Easton--" objected Walter.
Mrs. Easton stood up in the carriage. "Man alive!" she screamed, "you
know nothing, and I know a deal; begone, or you are no friend of mine:
you'll make me curse the hour that I interfered."
"Go, darling," said Mary, kindly, and so decidedly that he turned his
horse directly, gave her one look of love and disappointment, and
galloped away.
Mary looked pale and angry, and drove on in sullen silence.
Mrs. Easton was too agitated to mind her angry looks. She kept wiping
the perspiration from her brow with her handkerchief, and speaking in
broken sentences: "If we could only get there first--fool not to teach
my sister her lesson before we went, she's such a simpleton!--can't you
drive faster?"
"Why, nurse," said Mary, "don't be so afraid of Mr. Hope. It's not him
I'm afraid of; it's papa."
"Yon don't know what you're talking about, child. Mr. Bartley is easily
blinded; I won't tell you why. It isn't so with Mr. Hope. Oh, if I could
only get in to have one word with my simple sister before he turns her
inside out!"
This question was soon decided. Hope drove up to the door whilst Mary and
Mrs. Eastern were still some distance off and hidden by a turn in the
road. When they emerged again into sight of the farm they just caught
sight of Hope's back, and Mrs. Gilbert curtseying to him and ushering him
into the house.
"Drive into the stable-yard," said Mrs. Easton, faintly. "He mustn't see
your travelling basket, anyway."
She told the servant to put the horse into the stable immediately, and
the basket into the brew-house. Then she hurried Mary up the back
stairs to her room, and went with a beating heart to find Mr. Hope and
her sister.
Mrs. Gilbert, though a simple and unguarded woman, could read faces like
the rest, and she saw at once that her sister was very much put out by
this visit of Mr. Hope, and wanted to know what had passed between her
and him. This set the poor woman all in a flutter for fear she should
have said something injudicious, and there-upon she prepared to find out,
if possible, what she ought to have said.
"What! Mr. Hope!" said Mrs. Easton. "Well, Mary will be glad. And have
you been long home, sir?"
"Came last night," said Hope. "She hasn't been well, I hear. What is the
matter?" And he looked very anxious.
"Well, sir," said Mrs. Easton, very guardedly, "she certainly gave me a
fright when she came here. She looked quite pale; but whether it was
that she wanted a change--but whatever it was, it couldn't be very
serious. You shall judge for yourself. Sister, go to Miss Mary's room,
and tell her."
Mrs. Easton, in giving this instruction, frowned at her sister as much as
to say, "Now don't speak, but go."
When she was gone, the next thing was to find out if the woman had made
any foolish admission to Mr. Hope; so she waited for him.
She had not long to wait.
Hope said: "I hardly expected to see you; your sister said you were
from home."
"Well, sir," said Mrs. Easton, "we were not so far off, but we did come
home a little sooner than we intended, and I am rare glad we did, for
Miss Mary wouldn't have missed you for all the _views_ in the county."
With that she made an excuse, and left him. She found her sister in
Mary's room: they were comparing notes.
"Now," said she to Mrs. Gilbert, "you tell me every word you said to Mr.
Hope about Miss Mary and me."
"Well, I said you were not at home, and that is every word; he didn't
give me time to say any more for questioning of me about her health."
"That's lucky," said Mrs. Easton, dryly. "Thank Heaven, there's no harm
done; he sha'n't see the carriage."
"Dear me, nurse," said Mary, "all this time I'm longing to see him."
"Well, you shall see him, if you won't own to having been a night
from home."
Mary promised, and went eagerly to Mr. Hope. It did not come natural to
her to be afraid of him, and she was impatient for the day to come when
she might tell him the whole story. The reception he gave her was not of
a nature to discourage this feeling; his pale face--for he had been very
ill--flushed at sight of her, his eyes poured affection upon her, and he
held out both hands to her. "This the pale girl they frightened me
about!" said he. "Why, you're like the roses in July."
"That's partly with seeing of you, sir," said Mrs. Easton, quietly
following, "but we do take some credit to ourselves too; for Miss Mary
_was_ rather pale when she came here a week ago; but la, young folks want
a change now and then."
"Nurse," said Mary, "I really was not well, and you have done wonders for
me, and I hope you won't think me ungrateful, but I _must_ go home with
Mr. Hope."
Hope's countenance flushed with delight, and Mrs. Easton saw in a moment
that Mary's affection was co-operating with her prudence. "I thought that
would be her first word, sir," said she. "Why, of course you will, miss.
There, don't you take any trouble; we'll pack up your things and put them
in the dog-cart; but you must eat a morsel both of you before you go.
There's a beautiful piece of beef in the pot, not oversalted, and some
mealy potatoes and suet dumplings. You sit down and have your chat,
whilst Polly and I get everything ready for you."
Then Mary asked Mr. Hope so many questions with such eager affection that
he had no time to ask her any, and then she volunteered the home news,
especially of Colonel Clifford's condition, and then she blushed and
asked him if he had said anything to her father about Walter Clifford.
"Not much," said Mr. Hope. "You are very young, Mary, and it's not for me
to interfere, and I won't interfere. But if you want my opinion, why, I
admire the young man extremely. I always liked him; he is a
straightforward, upright, manly, good-hearted chap, and has lots of
plain good sense--Heaven knows where he got it!"
This eulogy was interrupted by Mary putting a white hand and a perfect
nose upon Hope's shoulder, and kissing the cloth thereon.
"What," said Hope, tenderly, and yet half sadly--for he knew that all
middle-aged men must now be second--"have I found the way to your heart?"
"You always knew that, Mr. Hope," said Mary, softly; "especially since my
escapade in that horrid brook."
Their affectionate chat was interrupted by a stout servant laying a snowy
cloth, and after her sailed in Mrs. Gilbert, with a red face, and pride
unconcealed and justifiable, carrying a grand dish of smoking hot boiled
beef, set in a very flower bed, so to speak, of carrots, turnips, and
suet dumplings; the servant followed with a brown basin, almost as big as
a ewer, filled with mealy potatoes, whose jackets hung by a thread.
Around this feast the whole party soon collected, and none of them sighed
for Russian soups or French ragouts; for the fact is that under the title
of boiled beef there exist two things, one of which, without any great
impropriety, might be called junk; but this was the powdered beef of our
ancestors, a huge piece just slightly salted in the house itself, so that
the generous juice remained in it, but the piquant slices, with the mealy
potatoes, made a delightful combination. The glasses were filled with
home-brewed ale, sparkling and clear and golden as the finest Madeira.
They all ate manfully, stimulated by the genial hostess. Even Mary
outshone all her former efforts, and although she couldn't satisfy Mrs.
Gilbert, she declared she had never eaten so much in all her life. This
set good Mrs. Gilbert's cheeks all aglow with simple, honest
satisfaction.
Hope drove Mary home in the dog-cart. He was a happy man, but she could
hardly be called a happy woman. She was warm and cold by turns. She had
got her friend back, and that was a comfort, but she was not treating him
with confidence; indeed, she was passively deceiving him, and that
chilled her; but then it would not be for long, and that comforted her,
and yet even when the day should come for the great doors of Clifford
Hall to fly open to her, would not a sad, reproachful look from dear Mr.
Hope somewhat imbitter her cup of happiness? Deceit, and even reticence,
did not come so natural to her as they do to many women: she was not
weak, and she was frank, though very modest.
Mr. Bartley met them at the door, and, owing to Hope's presence, was more
demonstrative than usual. He seemed much pleased at Mary's return, and
delighted at her appearance.
"Well," said he, "I am glad I sent you away for a week. We have all
missed you, my dear, but the change has set you up again, I never saw you
look better. Now you are well, we must try and keep you well."
* * * * *
We must leave the reader to imagine the mixed feelings with which Mrs.
Walter Clifford laid her head upon the pillow that night, and we
undertake to say that the female readers, at all events, will supply this
blank in our narrative much better than we could, though we were to fill
a chapter with that subject alone.
* * * * *
Passion is a terrible enemy to mere affection. Walter Clifford loved his
father dearly, yet for twenty-four hours he had almost forgotten him.
But the moment he turned his horse's head toward Clifford Hall,
uneasiness and something very like remorse began to seize him. Suppose
his father had asked for him, and wondered where he was, and felt
himself deserted and abandoned in his dying moments. He spurred his
horse to a gallop, and soon reached Clifford Hall. As he was afraid to
go straight to his father's room, he went at once to old Baker, and
said, in an agitated voice,
"One word, John--is he alive?"
"Yes, sir, he is," said John, gravely, and rather sternly.
"Has he asked for me?"
"More than once or twice, sir."
Walter sank into a chair, and covered his face with his hands. This
softened the old servant, whose manner till then had been sullen
and grim.
"You need not fret, Mr. Walter," said he; "it's all right. In course I
know where you have been."
Walter looked up alarmed.
"I mean in a general way," said the old man. "You have been a-courting of
an angel. I know her, sir, and I hope to be her servant some day; and if
you was to marry any but her, I'd leave service altogether, and so would
Rhoda Milton; but, Mr. Walter, sir, there's a time for everything: I hope
you'll forgive me for saying so. However you are here now, and I was
wide-awake, and I have made it all right, sir."
"That's impossible," said Walter. "How could you make it right with my
poor dear father, if in his last moments he felt himself neglected?"
"But he didn't feel himself neglected."
"I don't understand you," said Walter.
"Well, sir," said old Baker, "I'm an old servant, and I have done my duty
to father and son according to my lights: I told him a lie."
"A lie, John!" said Walter.
"A thundering lie," said John, rather aggressively. "I don't know as I
ever told a greater lie in all my life. I told him you was gone up to
London to fetch a doctor."
Walter grasped John Baker's hand. "God bless you, old man," said he, "for
taking that on your conscience! Well, you sha'n't have yourself to
reproach for my fault. I know a first-class gout doctor in London; he has
cured it more than once. I'll wire him down this minute; you'll dispatch
the message, and I'll go to my father."
The message was sent, and when the Colonel awoke from an uneasy slumber
he saw his son at the foot of the bed, gazing piteously at him.
"My dear boy," said he, faintly, and held out a wasted hand. Walter was
pricked to the heart at this greeting: not a word of remonstrance at
his absence.
"I fear you missed me, father," said he, sadly.
"That I have," said the old man; "but I dare say you didn't forget me,
though you weren't by my side."
The high-minded old soldier said no more, and put no questions, but
confided in his son's affection, and awaited the result of it. From that
hour Walter Clifford nursed his father day and night. Dr. Garner arrived
next day. He examined the patient, and put a great many questions as to
the history and progress of the disorder up to that date, and inquired
in particular what was the length of time the fits generally endured.
Here he found them all rather hazy. "Ah," said he, "patients are seldom
able to assist their medical adviser with precise information on this
point, yet it's very important. Well, can you tell me how long this
attack has lasted?"
They told him that within a day or two.
"Then now," said he, "the most important question of all: What day did
the pain leave his extremities?"
The patient and John Baker had to compare notes to answer this question,
and they made it out to be about twenty days.
"Then he ought to be as dead as a herring," whispered the doctor.
After this he began to walk the room and meditate, with his hands
behind him.
"Open those top windows," said he. "Now draw the screen, and give his
lungs a chance; no draughts must blow upon him, you know." Then he drew
Walter aside. "Do you want to know the truth? Well, then, his life hangs
on a thread. The gout is creeping upward, and will inevitably kill him
if we can't get it down. Nothing but heroic remedies will do that, and
it's three to five against them. What do you say?"
"I dare not--I dare not. Pray put the question to _him_."
"I will," said the doctor; and accordingly he did put it to him with a
good deal of feeling and gentleness, and the answer rather surprised him.
Weak as he was, Colonel Clifford's dull eye flashed, and he half raised
himself on his elbow. "What a question to put to a soldier!" said he.
"Why, let us fight, to be sure. I thought it was twenty to one--five to
three? I have often won the rubber with five to three against me."
"Ah!" said Dr. Garner, "these are the patients that give the doctor a
chance." Then he turned to Baker. "Have you any good champagne in the
house--not sweet, and not too dry, and full of fire?"
"Irroy's Carte d'Or," suggested the patient, entering into the business
with a certain feeble alacrity that showed his gout had not always been
unconnected with imprudence in diet.
Baker was sent for the champagne. It was brought and opened, and the
patient drank some of it fizzing. When he had drank what he could, his
eyes twinkled, and he said,
"That's a hair of a dog that has often bitten me."
The wine soon got into his weakened head, and he dropped asleep.
"Another draught when he wakes," said the doctor, "but from a
fresh bottle."
"We'll finish this one to your health in the servants' hall," said honest
John Baker.
Dr. Garner staid there all night, keeping up the patient's strength with
eggs and brandy, and everything, in short, except medicine; and he also
administered champagne, but at much longer intervals.
At one o'clock next day the patient gave a dismal groan; Walter and the
others started up in alarm.
"Good!" said the doctor, calmly; "now I'll go to bed. Call me if there's
any fresh symptom."
At six o'clock old Baker burst in the room: "Sir, sir, he have swore at
me twice. The Lord be praised!"
"Excellent!" said the doctor. "Now tell me what disagrees with him most
after champagne?"
"Why, Green Chartreuse, to be sure," said old Baker.
"Then give him a table-spoonful," said the doctor. "Get me some
hot water."
"Which first?" inquired Baker.
"The patient, to be sure," said Dr. Garner.
Soon after this the doctor stood by his patient's side, and found him
writhing, and, to tell the truth, he was using bad language occasionally,
though he evidently tried not to.
Dr. Garner looked at his watch. "I think there's time to catch the
evening train."
"Why," said Walter, "surely you would not desert us; this is the crisis,
is it not?"
"It's something more than that," said the doctor; "the disease knows its
old place; it has gone back to the foot like a shot; and if you can keep
it there, the patient will live; he's not the sort of patient that
strikes his colors while there's a bastion left to defend."
These words pleased the old Colonel so that he waved a feeble hand above
his head, then groaned most dismally, and ground his teeth to avoid
profanity.
The doctor, with exquisite gentleness, drew the clothes off his feet, and
sent for a lot of fleecy cotton or wool, and warned them all not to touch
the bed, nor even to approach the lower part of it, and then he once more
proposed to leave, and gave his reasons.
"Now, look here, you know, I have done my part, and if I give special
instructions to the nurses, they can do the rest. I'm rather dear, and
why should you waste your money?"
"Dear!" said Walter, warmly; "you're as cheap as dirt, and as good as
gold, and the very sight of you is a comfort to us. There's a fast train
at ten; I'll drive you to the station after breakfast myself. Your
fees--they are nothing to us. We love him, and we are the happiest house
in Christendom; we, that were the saddest."
"Well," said the doctor, "you north countrymen are hearty people. I'll
stay till to-morrow morning--indeed, I'll stay till the afternoon, for my
London day will be lost anyway."
He staid accordingly till three o'clock, left his patient out of all
present danger, and advised Walter especially against allowing colchicum
to be administered to him until his strength had recovered.
"There is no medicinal cure for gout," said he; "pain is a mere symptom,
and colchicum soothes that pain, not by affecting the disease, but by
stilling the action of the heart. Well, if you still the action of that
heart there, you'll kill him as surely as if you stilled it with a pistol
bullet. Knock off his champagne in three or four days, and wheel him into
the sun as soon as you can with safety, fill his lungs with oxygen, and
keep all worry and disputes and mental anxiety from him, if you can.
Don't contradict him for a month to come."
The Colonel had a terrible bout of it so far as pain was concerned, but
after about a fortnight the paroxysms intermitted, the appetite
increased. Everybody was his nurse; everybody, including Julia Clifford,
humored him; Percy Fitzroy was never mentioned, and the name of Bartley
religiously avoided. The Colonel had got a fright, and was more prudent
in his diet, and always in the open air.
Walter left him only at odd times, when he could hope to get a hasty word
with Mary, and tell her how things were going, and do all that man could
do to keep her heart up, and reconcile her to the present situation.
Returning from his wife one day, and leaving her depressed by their
galling situation, though she was never peevish, but very sad and
thoughtful, he found his father and Julia Clifford in the library.
Julia had been writing letters for him; she gave Walter a deprecatory
look, as much as to say, "What I am doing is by compulsion, and you
won't like it." Colonel Clifford didn't leave the young man in any
doubt about the matter. He said: "Walter, you heard me speak of Bell,
the counsel who leads this circuit. I was once so fortunate as to do
him a good turn, and he has not forgotten it; he will sleep here the
day after to-morrow, and he will go over that black-guard's lease: he
has been in plenty of mining cases. I have got a sort of half opinion
out of him already; he thinks it contrary to the equity of contracts
that minerals should pass under a farm lease where the surface of the
soil is a just equivalent to the yearly payment; but the old fox won't
speak positively till he has read every syllable of the lease. However,
it stands to reason that it's a fraud; it comes from a man who is all
fraud; but thank God I am myself again."
He started up erect as a dart. "I'll have him off my lands; I'll drag him
out of the bowels of the earth, him and all his clan."
With this and other threats of the same character he marched out of the
room, striking the floor hard with his stick as he went, and left Julia
Clifford amazed, and Walter Clifford aghast, at his vindictive fury.