The time was drawing nigh, and Sir John and his brother were sitting
over their wine, when the former began upon matters connected with the
wedding. Rolph had only left them that day, and was to return the next
morning to meet them at the church, in company with a brother officer,
ready to act as his best man. Then the wedding over, the happy pair
were to start for the Continent; and Brackley would be left to the
brothers, both of whom looked blank and dispirited as they asked
themselves what they were to do when the light of the place had gone.
And that was how the conversation first began. Sir John sighing, and
saying that he should miss Glynne very much indeed.
"Of course, I give lots of attention to my pigs and sheep, and the rest
of them," he said dolefully; "but Brackley won't be the same, Jem, old
fellow, when she's gone. I shall miss her dreadfully."
"Yes," said the major, raising his claret to his lips, and setting the
glass down again untouched, "we shall miss her dreadfully."
Then, after a long conversation, Sir John had touched upon the subject
of his brother's treatment of the bridegroom, and his conduct at the
wedding.
They sat sipping their claret for some time, Sir John being very silent;
and at last the long pause was followed by the major saying,--
"Well, don't let's leave our darling. I suppose I may say `our
darling,' Jack?"
"My dear brother!" exclaimed Sir John, grasping his hand.
"I say then, don't let's leave our darling alone any longer. We shall
have plenty of time to sip our wine of nights when we are alone, Jack.
Let's go and let her pour out tea for us for what will pretty well be
the last time."
"Hah! yes!" said Sir John, rising slowly, "for pretty well the last
time, Jem, and--and--"
Sir John stopped short, for his voice broke, and the nerves in his fine
florid face quivered.
The major laid one hand upon his brother's shoulder in good old
schoolboy fashion, caught his right hand in his own, and remained
gripping it warmly--a strong, firm, sympathetic grip, full of brotherly
feeling; but he spoke no word.
Sir John was the first to break the silence. "Thank you, Jem," he said,
"thank you, Jem. It's very weak and childish of me at my time of life,
but it touches me home; it touches me the harder, too, that she is my
only child; and--and--and, Jem, my lad, don't jump upon me--I must own
it to you now, and I will--I feel that I am making a great mistake."
"Thank God!" cried the major fervently.
"Jem!"
"I say, thank God," cried the major, "that you see the truth at last,
Jack, before it is too late."
"No, no, Jem," said Sir John sadly; "I have not seen it before it is too
late. It is too late. We cannot alter it now. I am in honour bound.
I cannot interfere."
"Hang honour!" cried the major excitedly. "I'd give up all the honour
in the world sooner than that girl's life should be blighted. Jack,
Jack, my dear brother, we are old men now. We've had our fling of life.
Let's think of our darling's happiness, and not of what the world
thinks of us."
"Too late, Jem! too late!" said Sir John.
"I tell you it is not too late, Jack. Hang it man, I'll do anything.
I'll challenge and shoot this confounded Rolph sooner than he shall have
her."
"Don't talk nonsense, Jem--don't talk nonsense. I've sounded Glynne
well, and it is too late."
"What! Do you mean to tell me that she would insist upon having him if
you forbade it?" cried the major.
"She thinks that she is bound to him, and that it is impossible to
retract, even if she wished."
"But doesn't she wish to run back from this wretched business?"
"No, she does not wish to run back from her promise."
"I don't believe it," cried the major, over whose white forehead the
veins stood up like a pink network.
"It is true all the same," said Sir John sadly. "If she had but
expressed the slightest wish, I'd have seen Rolph, even at this eleventh
hour, and, as he would have called it, the match should be off."
"I will go and see her myself, Jack. I don't want to insult you, my
dear brother, but she does look up to me and my opinion a little. Let
me try and win her to my way of thinking, and let's get this wretched
business stopped. She would never be happy, I am sure."
"Go and see her, Jem, by all means."
"You give me your leave?"
"I do."
The major uttered a sigh of relief, and smoothing his beard, and with
his eyes beaming, he walked straight into the drawing-room, where Glynne
was seated, looking very pale and beautiful, with her head resting upon
her soft white hand, gazing full at the lamp. Marjorie and three lady
friends were in the drawing-room, but they had evidently, out of respect
for the young girl's saddened state, retired to the end of the room,
where they were engaged in conversation in a low tone of voice.
Glynne did not stir as the major entered, for she was deep in thought;
but she turned to him with a sweet, grave smile as he laid his hand upon
hers.
"Will you come into the conservatory, my dear?" he said gently. "I want
to talk to you."
She rose without a word, and laid her hand upon his arm, letting her
uncle lead her into the great, softly-lit corridor of flowers; while, as
the major realised the difficulties of the task he had before him, he
grew silent, so that they had walked nearly to the end before he spoke.
"My dear child," he said, in a husky, hesitating voice, for, though he
had often dashed with his men at the charge full into the dangers of the
battlefield, he felt a peculiar sensation of nervous dread now at having
to broach the business upon which he had come.
"My dear child," he began again.
"My dear uncle," she answered, tenderly.
"You know my feelings respecting your approaching marriage?"
She looked up at him sadly, and the tears stood in her eyes.
"Yes, uncle, dear, I know," she replied slowly.
"Well, your father has now come over to my side, and he gives me his
consent to see you, to win from you--"
"Hush, uncle--dear uncle," said Glynne softly. "I know you love me--
dearly, as if I were your own child."
"I do, I do indeed," he cried.
"Then pray spare me all these painful words."
"Plain words to save you pain in the future," he said tenderly.
"It is too late, uncle. I told my father that. It is too late."
"No, no, my darling, it is not too late," cried the major excitedly.
"You are afraid of the talk and scandal. Bah! let them talk and
scandalise till they get tired. What is it to us? Look here; we'll
start for the Continent to-morrow, and stay away till this business is
forgotten. A nine days' wonder, my child. There, there, you consent.
By George, we'll be off to-night--_now_. I'll go and order the carriage
at once. It will be round by the time you have got a few things
together in a bag."
"Stop, uncle, dear uncle."
"No, no; your father will go with us, too."
Glynne shook her head, and, putting one arm round his neck, kissed the
old man fondly.
"Hush, dear," she said; "you forget. I cannot--I will not hear another
word. I am determined that I will hold to my promise."
"But, Glynne, my child," cried the major appealingly.
"It is too late--it is too late," responded Glynne. "And now, uncle, if
you love me, spare me further suffering."
He waited for a few minutes, and resumed the attack, but without effect;
and just as he was gazing despairingly in his niece's face Sir John
entered, looking inquiringly at both, when Glynne went smilingly to his
side at once, and laid her hands upon his breast.
"Dear father," she said tenderly, "let my last few hours at home be
undisturbed by pain."
"My darling," said Sir John softly, "you are mistress here. Jem, old
fellow, you have spoken."
"Delivered my charge, Jack, and failed. I retire broken from the
field."
Glynne held out her hand to him, and when he took it she leaned towards
him to kiss his lips.
About an hour later Mason the maid learned a secret which she afterwards
confided to her intimates in the servants' hall.
Mason went up to Glynne's bedroom to carry there a lately-arrived packet
containing a portion of her mistress's _trousseau_.
She had hardly entered the room when she noted that the door connecting
it with Glynne's little study was ajar, and a sigh taught her that it
was occupied.
"I'll take it in, and she'll open it at once," thought Mason, who was
burning with curiosity to see the contents of the package; and, going
lightly across to the door, she pressed it open, and then stood
petrified at the scene before her.
For Glynne was kneeling before a chair with her face buried in her hands
sobbing violently, while in piteous tones she breathed out the agony of
her heart in the wild appeal,--
"Heaven help me and give me strength! It is more than I can bear."
Volume 3, Chapter VII.