MEANTIME Mr. Oldfield began to tell the admiral who he was, and that he
was come to remove a false impression about a client of his, Sir
Charles Bassett.
“That, sir,” said the admiral, sternly, “is a name we never mention
here.”
He rose and went to the folding-doors, and deliberately closed them.
The Somerset, thus defeated, bit her lip, and sat all of a heap, like a
cat about to spring, looking sulky and vicious.
Mr. Oldfield persisted, and, as he took the admiral's hint and lowered
his voice, he was interrupted no more, but made a simple statement of
those facts which are known to the reader.
Admiral Bruce heard them, and admitted that the case was not quite so
bad as he had thought.
Then Mr. Oldfield proposed that Sir Charles should be re-admitted.
“No,” said the old admiral, firmly; “turn it how you will, it is too
ugly; the bloom of the thing is gone. Why should my daughter take that
woman's leavings? Why should I give her pure heart to a man about
town?”
“Because you will break it else,” said Miss Somerset, with affected
politeness.
“Give her credit for more dignity, madam, if you please,” replied
Admiral Bruce, with equal politeness.
“Oh, bother dignity!” cried the Somerset.
At this free phrase from so well-dressed a lady Admiral Bruce opened
his eyes, and inquired of Oldfield, rather satirically, who was this
lady that did him the honor to interfere in his family affairs.
Oldfield looked confused; but Somerset, full of mother-wit, was not to
be caught napping. “I'm a by-stander; and they always see clearer than
the folk themselves. You are a man of honor, sir, and you are very
clever at sea, no doubt, and a fighter, and all that; but you are no
match for land-sharks. You are being made a dupe and a tool of. Who do
you think wrote that anonymous letter to your daughter? A friend of
truth? a friend of injured innocence? Nothing of the sort. One Richard
Bassett--Sir Charles's cousin. Here, Mr. Oldfield, please compare these
two handwritings closely, and you will see I am right.” She put down
the anonymous letter and Richard Bassett's letter to herself; but she
could not wait for Mr. Oldfield to compare the documents, now her
tongue was set going. “Yes, gentlemen, this is new to you; but you'll
find that little scheming rascal wrote them both, and with as base a
motive and as black a heart as any other anonymous coward's. His game
is to make Sir Charles Bassett die childless, and so then this dirty
fellow would inherit the estate; and owing to you being so green, and
swallowing an anonymous letter like pure water from the spring, he very
nearly got his way. Sir Charles has been at death's door along of all
this.”
“Hush, madam! not so loud, please,” whispered Admiral Bruce, looking
uneasily toward the folding, doors.
“Why not?” bawled the Somerset. “THE TRUTH MAY BE BLAMED, BUT IT CAN'T
BE SHAMED. I tell you that your precious letter brought Sir Charles
Bassett to the brink of the grave. Soon as ever he got it he came
tearing in his cab to Miss Somerset's house, and accused her of telling
the lie to keep him--and he might have known better, for the jade never
did a sneaking thing in her life. But, any way, he thought it must be
her doing, miscalled her like a dog, and raged at her dreadful, and at
last--what with love and fury and despair--he had the terriblest fit
you ever saw. He fell down as black as your hat, and his eyes rolled,
and his teeth gnashed, and he foamed at the mouth, and took four to
hold him; and presently as white as a ghost, and given up for dead. No
pulse for hours; and when his life came back his reason was gone.”
“Good Heavens, madam!”
“For a time it was. How he did rave! and 'Bella' the only name on his
lips. And now he lies in his own house as weak as water. Come, old
gentleman, don't you be too hard; you are not a child, like your
daughter; take the world as it is. Do you think you will ever find a
man of fortune who has not had a lady friend? Why, every single
gentleman in London that can afford to keep a saddle-horse has an
article of that sort in some corner or other; and if he parts with her
as soon as his banns are cried, that is all you can expect. Do you
think any mother in Belgravia would make a row about that? They are
downier than you are; they would shrug their aristocratic shoulders,
and decline to listen to the _past_ lives of their sons-in-law--unless
it was all in the newspapers, mind you.”
“If Belgravian mothers have mercenary minds, that is no reason why I
should, whose cheeks have bronzed in the service of a virtuous queen,
and whose hairs have whitened in honor.”
On receiving this broadside the Somerset altered her tone directly, and
said, obsequiously: “That is true, sir, and I beg your pardon for
comparing you to the trash. But brave men are pitiful, you know. Then
show your pity here. Pity a gentleman that repented his faults as soon
as your daughter showed him there was a better love within reach, and
now lies stung by an anonymous viper, and almost dying of love and
mortification; and pity your own girl, that will soon lose her health,
and perhaps her life, if you don't give in.”
“She is not so weak, madam. She is in better spirits already.”
“Ay, but then she didn't know what he had suffered for _her._ She does
now, for I heard her moan; and she will die for him now, or else she
will give you twice as many kisses as usual some day, and cry a
bucketful over you, and then run away with her lover. I know women
better than you do; I am one of the precious lot.”
The admiral replied only with a look of superlative scorn. This
incensed the Somerset; and that daring woman, whose ear was nearer to
the door, and had caught sounds that escaped the men, actually turned
the handle, and while her eye flashed defiance, her vigorous foot
spurned the folding-doors wide open in half a moment.
Bella Bruce lay with her head sidewise on the table, and her hands
extended, moaning and sobbing piteously for poor Sir Charles.
“For shame, madam, to expose my child,” cried the admiral, bursting
with indignation and grief. He rushed to her and took her in his arms.
She scarcely noticed him, for the moment he turned her she caught sight
of Miss Somerset, and recognized her face in a moment. “Ah! the Sister
of Charity!” she cried, and stretched out her hands to her, with a look
and a gesture so innocent, confiding, and imploring, that the Somerset,
already much excited by her own eloquence, took a turn not uncommon
with termagants, and began to cry herself.
But she soon stopped that, for she saw her time was come to go, and
avoid unpleasant explanations. She made a dart and secured the two
letters. “Settle it among yourselves,” said she, wheeling round and
bestowing this advice on the whole party; then shot a sharp arrow at
the admiral as she fled: “If you must be a tool of Richard Bassett,
don't be a tool and a dupe by halves. _He_ is in love with her too.
Marry her to the blackguard, and then you will be sure to kill Sir
Charles.” Having delivered this with such volubility that the words
pattered out like a roll of musketry, she flounced out, with red cheeks
and wet eyes, rushed down the stairs, and sprang into her carriage,
whipped the ponies, and away at a pace that made the spectators stare.
Mr. Oldfield muttered some excuses, and retired more sedately.
All this set Bella Bruce trembling and weeping, and her father was some
time before he could bring her to anything like composure. Her first
words, when she could find breath, were, “He is innocent; he is
unhappy. Oh, that I could fly to him!”
“Innocent! What proof?”
“That brave lady said so.”
“Brave lady! A bold hussy. Most likely a friend of the woman Somerset,
and a bird of the same feather. Sir Charles has done himself no good
with me by sending such an emissary.”
“No, papa; it was the lawyer brought her, and then her own good heart
_made her burst out._ Ah! she is not like me: she has courage. What a
noble thing courage is, especially in a woman!”
“Pray did you hear the language of this noble lady?”
“Every word nearly; and I shall never forget them. They were diamonds
and pearls.”
“Of the sort you can pick up at Billingsgate.”
“Ah, papa, she pleaded for _him_ as I cannot plead, and yet I love him.
It was true eloquence. Oh, how she made me shudder! Only think: he had
a fit, and lost his reason, and all for me. What shall I do? What shall
I do?”
This brought on a fit of weeping.
Her father pitied her, and gave her a crumb of sympathy: said he was
sorry for Sir Charles.
“But,” said he, recovering his resolution, “it cannot be helped. He
must expiate his vices, like other men. Do, pray, pluck up a little
spirit and sense. Now try and keep to the point. This woman came from
him; and you say you heard her language, and admire it. Quote me some
of it.”
“She said he fell down as black as his hat, and his eyes rolled, and
his poor teeth gnashed, and--oh, my darling! my darling! oh! oh! oh!”
“There--there--I mean about other things.”
Bella complied, but with a running accompaniment of the sweetest little
sobs.
“She said I must be very green, to swallow an anonymous letter like
spring water. Oh! oh!”
“Green? There was a word!”
“Oh! oh! But it is the right word. You can't mend it. Try, and you will
see you can't. Of course I was green. Oh! And she said every gentleman
who can afford to keep a saddle-horse has a female friend, till his
banns are called in church. Oh! oh!”
“A pretty statement to come to your ears!”
“But if it is the truth! 'THE TRUTH MAY BE BLAMED, BUT IT CAN'T BE
SHAMED.' Ah! I'll not forget that: I'll pray every night I may remember
those words of the brave lady. Oh!”
“Yes, take her for your oracle.”
“I mean to. I always try to profit by my superiors. She has courage: I
have none. I beat about the bush, and talk skim-milk; she uses the very
word. She said we have been the dupe and the tool of a little scheming
rascal, an anonymous coward, with motives as base as his heart is
black--oh! oh! Ay, that is the way to speak of such a man; I can't do
it myself, but I reverence the brave lady who can. And she wasn't
afraid even of you, dear papa. 'Come, old gentleman'--ha! ha!
ha!--'take the world as it is; Belgravian mothers would not break
_both_ their hearts for what is past and gone.' What hard good sense! a
thing I always _did_ admire: because I've got none. But her _heart_ is
not hard; after all her words of fire, that went so straight instead of
beating the bush, she ended by crying for me. Oh! oh! oh! Bless her!
Bless her! If ever there was a good woman in the world, that is one.
She was not born a lady, I am afraid; but that is nothing: she was born
a woman, and I mean to make her acquaintance, and take her for my
example in all things. No, dear papa, women are not so pitiful to women
without cause. She is almost a stranger, yet she cried for me. Can you
be harder to me than she is? No; pity your poor girl, who will lose her
health, and perhaps her life. Pity poor Charles, stung by an anonymous
viper, and laid on a bed of sickness for me. Oh! oh! oh!”
“I do pity you, Bella. When you cry like this, my heart bleeds.”
“I'll try not to cry, papa. Oh! oh!”
“But most of all, I pity your infatuation, your blindness. Poor,
innocent dove, that looks at others by the light of her own goodness,
and so sees all manner of virtues in a brazen hussy. Now answer me one
plain question. You called her 'the Sister!' Is she not the same woman
that played the Sister of Charity?”
Bella blushed to the temples, and said, hesitatingly, she was not quite
sure.
“Come, Bella. I thought you were going to imitate the jade, and not
beat about the bush. Yes or no?”
“The features are very like.”
“Bella, you know it is the same woman. You recognized her in a moment.
That speaks volumes. But she shall find I am not to be made 'a dupe and
a tool of' quite so easily as she thinks. I'll tell you what--this is
some professional actress Sir Charles has hired to waylay you. Little
simpleton!”
He said no more at that time; but after dinner he ruminated, and took a
very serious, indeed almost a maritime, view of the crisis. “I'm
overmatched now,” thought he. “They will cut my sloop out under the
very guns of the flagship if we stay much longer in this port--a lawyer
against me, and a woman too; there's nothing to be done but heave
anchor, hoist sail, and run for it.”
He sent off a foreign telegram, and then went upstairs. “Bella, my
dear,” said he, “pack up your clothes for a journey. We start
to-morrow.”
“A journey, papa! A long one?”
“No. We shan't double the Horn this time.”
“Brighton? Paris?”
“Oh, farther than that.”
“The grave: that is the journey I should like to take.”
“So you shall, some day; but just now it is a _foreign_ port you are
bound for. Go and pack.”
“I obey.” And she was creeping off, but he called her back and kissed
her, and said, “Now I'll tell you where you are going; but you must
promise me solemnly not to write one line to Sir Charles.”
She promised, but cried as soon as she had promised; whereat the
admiral inferred he had done wisely to exact the promise.
“Well, my dear,” said he, “we are going to Baden. Your aunt Molineux is
there. She is a woman of great delicacy and prudence, and has daughters
of her own all well married, thanks to her motherly care. She will
bring you to your senses better than I can.”
Next evening they left England by the mail; and the day after Richard
Bassett learned this through his servant, and went home triumphant,
and, indeed, wondering at his success. He ascribed it, however, to the
Nemesis which dogs the heels of those who inherit the estate of
another.
Such was the only moral reflection he made, though the business in
general, and particularly his share in it, admitted of several.
Miss Somerset also heard of it, and told Mr. Oldfield; he told Sir
Charles Bassett.
That gentleman sighed deeply, and said nothing. He had lost all hope.
The whole matter appeared stagnant for about ten days; and then a
delicate hand stirred the dead waters cautiously. Mr. Oldfield, of all
people in the world, received a short letter from Bella Bruce.
“Konigsberg Hotel, BADEN.
“Miss Bruce presents her compliments to Mr. Oldfield, and will feel
much obliged if he will send her the name and address of that brave
lady who accompanied him to her father's house.
“Miss Bruce desires to thank that lady, personally, for her noble
defense of one with whom it would be improper for her to communicate;
but she can never be indifferent to his welfare, nor hear of his
sufferings without deep sorrow.”
“Confound it!” said Solomon Oldfield. “What am I to do? I mustn't tell
her it is Miss Somerset.” So the wary lawyer had a copy of the letter
made, and sent to Miss Somerset for instructions.
Miss Somerset sent for Mr. Marsh, who was now more at her beck and call
than ever, and told him she had a ticklish letter to write. “I can talk
with the best,” said she, “but the moment I sit down and take up a pen
something cold runs up my shoulder, and then down my backbone, and I'm
palsied; now you are always writing, and can't say 'Bo' to a goose in
company. Let us mix ourselves; I'll walk about and speak my mind, and
then you put down the cream, and send it.”
From this ingenious process resulted the following composition:
“She whom Miss Bruce is good enough to call 'the brave lady' happened
to know the truth, and that tempted her to try and baffle an anonymous
slanderer, who was ruining the happiness of a lady and gentleman. Being
a person of warm impulses, she went great lengths; but she now wishes
to retire into the shade. She is flattered by Miss Bruce's desire to
know her, and some day, perhaps, may remind her of it; but at present
she must deny herself that honor. If her reasons were known, Miss Bruce
would not be offended nor hurt; she would entirely approve them.”
Soon after this, as Sir Charles Bassett sat by the fire, disconsolate,
his servant told him a lady wanted to see him.
“Who is it?”
“Don't know, Sir Charles; but it is a kind of a sort of a nun, Sir
Charles.”
“Oh, a Sister of Charity! Perhaps the one that nursed me. Admit her, by
all means.”
The Sister came in. She had a large veil on. Sir Charles received her
with profound respect, and thanked her, with some little hesitation,
for her kind attention to him. She stopped him by saying that was
merely her duty. “But,” said she, softly, “words fell from you, on the
bed of sickness, that touched my heart; and besides I happen to know
the lady.”
“You know my Bella!” cried Sir Charles. “Ah, then no wonder you speak
so kindly; you can feel what I have lost. She has left England to avoid
me.”
“All the better. Where she is the door cannot be closed in your face.
She is at Baden. Follow her there. She has heard the truth from Mr.
Oldfield, and she knows who wrote the anonymous letter.”
“And who did?”
“Mr. Richard Bassett.”
This amazed Sir Charles.
“The scoundrel!” said he, after a long silence.
“Well, then, why let that fellow defeat you, for his own ends? I would
go at once to Baden. Your leaving England would be one more proof to
her that she has no rival. Stick to her like a man, sir, and you will
win her, I tell you.”
These words from a nun amazed and fired him. He rose from his chair,
flushed with sudden hope and ardor. “I'll leave for Baden to-morrow
morning.”
The Sister rose to retire.
“No, no,” cried Sir Charles. “I have not thanked you. I ought to go
down on my knees and bless you for all this. To whom am I so indebted?”
“No matter, sir.”
“But it does matter. You nursed me, and perhaps saved my life, and now
you give me back the hopes that make life sweet. You will not trust me
with your name?”
“We have no name.”
“Your voice at times sounds very like--no, I will not affront you by
such a comparison.”
“I'm her sister,” said she, like lightning.
This announcement quite staggered Sir Charles, and he was silent and
uncomfortable. It gave him a chill.
The Sister watched him keenly, but said nothing.
Sir Charles did not know what to say, so he asked to see her face. “It
must be as beautiful as your heart.”
The Sister shook her head. “My face has been disfigured by a frightful
disorder.”
Sir Charles uttered an ejaculation of regret and pity.
“I could not bear to show it to one who esteems me as you seem to do.
But perhaps it will not always be so.”
“I hope not. You are young, and Heaven is good. Can I do nothing for
you, who have done so much for me?”
“Nothing--unless--” said she, feigning vast timidity, “you could spare
me that ring of yours, as a remembrance of the part I have played in
this affair.”
Sir Charles colored. It was a ruby of the purest water, and had been
two centuries in his family. He colored, but was too fine a gentleman
to hesitate. He said, “By all means. But it is a poor thing to offer
_you.”_
“I shall value it very much.”
“Say no more. I am fortunate in having anything you deign to accept.”
And so the ring changed hands.
The Sister now put it on her middle finger, and held up her hand, and
her bright eyes glanced at it, through her veil, with that delight
which her sex in general feel at the possession of a new bauble. She
recovered herself, however, and told him, soberly, the ring should
return to his family at her death, if not before.
“I will give you a piece of advice for it,” said she. “Miss Bruce has
foxy hair; and she is very timid. Don't you take her advice about
commanding her. She would like to be your slave! Don't let her. Coax
her to speak her mind. Make a friend of her. Don't you put her to
this--that she must displease you, or else deceive you. She might
choose wrong, especially with that colored hair.”
“It is not in her nature to deceive.”
“It is not in her nature to displease. Excuse me; I am too fanciful,
and look at women too close. But I know your happiness depends on her.
All your eggs are in that one basket. Well, I have told you how to
carry the basket. Good-by.”
Sir Charles saw her out, and bowed respectfully to her in the hall,
while his servant opened the street door. He did her this homage as his
benefactress.
When admiral and Miss Bruce reached Baden Mrs. Molineux was away on a
visit; and this disappointed Admiral Bruce, who had counted on her
assistance to manage and comfort Bella. Bella needed the latter very
much. A glance at her pale, pensive, lovely face was enough to show
that sorrow was rooted at her heart. She was subjected to no restraint,
but kept the house of her own accord, thinking, as persons of her age
are apt to do, that her whole history must be written in her face.
Still, of course, she did go out sometimes; and one cold but bright
afternoon she was strolling languidly on the parade, when all in a
moment she met Sir Charles Bassett face to face.
She gave an eloquent scream, and turned pale a moment, and then the hot
blood came rushing, and then it retired, and she stood at bay, with
heaving bosom--and great eyes.
Sir Charles held out both hands pathetically. “Don't you be afraid of
me.”
When she found he was so afraid of offending her she became more
courageous. “How dare you come here?” said she, but with more curiosity
than violence, for it had been her dream of hope he would come.
“How could I keep away, when I heard you were here?”
“You must not speak to me, sir; I am forbidden.”
“Pray do not condemn me unheard.”
“If I listen to you I shall believe you. I won't hear a word. Gentlemen
can do things that ladies cannot even speak about. Talk to my aunt
Molineux; our fate depends on her. This will teach you not to be so
wicked. What business have gentlemen to be so wicked? Ladies are not.
No, it is no use; I will not hear a syllable. I am ashamed to be seen
speaking to you. You are a bad character. Oh, Charles, is it true you
had a fit?”
“Yes.”
“And have you been very ill? You look ill.”
“I am better now, dearest.”
“Dearest! Don't call me names. How dare you keep speaking to me when I
request you not?”
“But I can't excuse myself, and obtain my pardon, and recover your
love, unless I am allowed to speak.”
“Oh, you can speak to my aunt Molineux, and she will read you a fine
lesson.”
“Where is she?”
“Nobody knows. But there is her house, the one with the iron gate. Get
her ear first, if you really love me; and don't you ever waylay me
again. If you do, I shall say something rude to you, sir. Oh, I'm so
happy!”
Having let this out, she hid her face with her hands, and fled like the
very wind.
At dinner-time she was in high spirits.
The admiral congratulated her.
“Brava, Bell! Youth and health and a foreign air will soon cure you of
that folly.”
Bella blushed deeply, and said nothing. The truth struggled within her,
too, but she shrank from giving pain, and receiving expostulation.
She kept the house, though, for two days, partly out of modesty, partly
out of an honest and pious desire to obey her father as much as she
could.
The third day Mrs. Molineux arrived, and sent over to the admiral.
He invited Bella to come with him. She consented eagerly, but was so
long in dressing that he threatened to go without her. She implored him
not to do that; and after a monstrous delay, the motive of which the
reader may perhaps divine, father and daughter called on Mrs. Molineux.
She received them very affectionately. But when the admiral, with some
hesitation, began to enter on the great subject, she said, quietly,
“Bella, my dear, go for a walk, and come back to me in half an hour.”
“Aunt Molineux!” said Bella, extending both her hands imploringly to
that lady.
Mrs. Molineux was proof against this blandishment, and Bella had to go.
When she was gone, this lady, who both as wife and mother was literally
a model, rather astonished her brother the admiral. She said: “I am
sorry to tell you that you have conducted this matter with perfect
impropriety, both you and Bella. She had no business to show you that
anonymous letter; and when she did show it you, you should have taken
it from her, and told her not to believe a word of it.”
“And married my daughter to a libertine! Why, Charlotte, I am ashamed
of you.”
Mrs. Molineux colored high; but she kept her temper, and ignored the
interruption. “Then, if you decided to go into so indelicate a question
at all (and really you were not bound to do so on anonymous
information), why, then, you should have sent for Sir Charles, and
given him the letter, and put him on his honor to tell you the truth.
He would have told you the fact, instead of a garbled version; and the
fact is that before he knew Bella he had a connection, which he
prepared to dissolve, on terms very honorable to himself, as soon as he
engaged himself to your daughter. What is there in that? Why, it is
common, universal, among men of fashion. I am so vexed it ever came to
Bella's knowledge: really it is dreadful to me, as a mother, that such
a thing should have been discussed before that child. Complete
innocence means complete ignorance; and that is how all my girls went
to their husbands. However, what we must do now is to tell her Sir
Charles has satisfied me he was not to blame; and after that the
subject must never be recurred to. Sir Charles has promised me never to
mention it, and no more shall Bella. And now, my dear John, let me
congratulate you. Your daughter has a high-minded lover, who adores
her, with a fine estate: he has been crying to me, poor fellow, as men
will to a woman of my age; and if you have any respect for my
judgment--ask him to dinner.”
She added that it might be as well if, after dinner, he were to take a
little nap.
Admiral Bruce did not fall into these views without discussion. I spare
the reader the dialogue, since he yielded at last; only he stipulated
that his sister should do the dinner, and the subsequent siesta.
Bella returned looking very wistful and anxious.
“Come here, niece,” said Mrs. Molineux. “Kneel you at my knee. Now
look--me in the face. Sir Charles has loved you, and you only, from the
day he first saw you. He loves you now as much as ever. Do you love
him?”
“Oh, aunt! aunt!” A shower of kisses, and a tear or two.
“That is enough. Then dry your eyes, and dress your beautiful hair a
little better than _that;_ for he dines with me to-day!”
Who so bright and happy now as Bella Bruce?
The dreaded aunt did not stop there. She held that after the peep into
real life Bella Bruce had obtained, for want of a mother's vigilance,
she ought to be a wife as soon as possible. So she gave Sir Charles a
hint that Baden was a very good place to be married in; and from that
moment Sir Charles gave Bella and her father no rest till they
consented.
Little did Richard Bassett, in England, dream what was going on at
Baden. He now surveyed the chimneys of Huntercombe Hall with
resignation, and even with growing complacency, as chimneys that would
one day be his, since their owner would not be in a hurry to love
again. He shot Sir Charles's pheasants whenever they strayed into his
hedgerows, and he lived moderately and studied health. In a word,
content with the result of his anonymous letter, he confined himself
now to cannily out-living the wrongful heir--his cousin.
One fine frosty day the chimneys of Huntercombe began to show signs of
life; vertical columns of blue smoke rose in the air, one after
another, till at last there were about forty going.
Old servants flowed down from London. New ones trickled in, with their
boxes, from the country. Carriages were drawn out into the stable-yard,
horses exercised, and a whisper ran that Sir Charles was coming to live
on his estates, and not alone.
Richard Bassett went about inquiring cautiously.
The rumor spread and was confirmed by some little facts.
At last, one fine day, when the chimneys were all smoking, the
church-bells began to peal.
Richard Bassett heard, and went out, scowling deeply. He found the
village all agog with expectation.
Presently there was a loud cheer from the steeple, and a flag floated
from the top of Huntercombe House. Murmurs. Distant cheers. Approaching
cheers. The clatter of horses' feet. The roll of wheels. Huntercombe
gates flung wide open by a cluster of grooms and keepers.
Then on came two outriders, ushered by loud hurrahs, and followed by a
carriage and four that dashed through the village amid peals of delight
from the villagers. The carriage was open, and in it sat Sir Charles
and Bella Bassett. She was lovelier than ever; she dazzled the very air
with her beauty and her glorious hair. The hurrahs of the villagers
made her heart beat; she pressed Sir Charles's hand tenderly, and
literally shone with joy and pride; and so she swept past Richard
Bassett; she saw him directly, shuddered a moment, and half clung to
her husband; then on again, and passed through the open gates amid loud
cheers. She alighted in her own hall, and walked, nodding and smiling
sunnily, through two files of domestics and retainers; and thought no
more of Richard Bassett than some bright bird that has flown over a
rattlesnake and glanced down at him.
But a gorgeous bird cannot always be flying. A snake can sometimes
creep under her perch, and glare, and keep hissing, till she shudders
and droops and lays her plumage in the dust.