The tragical affair at Dollis Hill, it need scarcely be said, was a
dreadful blow to the family. Mr. Wood bore up with great fortitude
against the shock, attended the inquest, delivered his evidence with
composure, and gave directions afterwards for the funeral, which took
place on the day but one following--Sunday. As soon, however, as the
last solemn rites were over, and the remains of the unfortunate woman
committed to their final resting-place in Willesden churchyard, his
firmness completely deserted him, and he sank beneath the weight of
his affliction. It was fortunate that by this time Winifred had so
far recovered, as to be able to afford her father the best and only
solace that, under the circumstances, he could have received,--her
personal attentions.
The necessity which had previously existed of leaving the ghastly
evidence of the murderous deed undisturbed,--the presence of the
mangled corpse,--the bustle of the inquest, at which her attendance
was required,--all these circumstances produced a harrowing effect
upon the young girl's imagination. But when all was over, a sorrowful
calm succeeded, and, if not free from grief, she was tranquil. As
to Thames, though deeply and painfully affected by the horrible
occurrence that had marked his return to his old friends, he was yet
able to control his feelings, and devote himself to the alleviation
of the distress of the more immediate sufferers by the calamity.
It was Sunday evening--a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy,
_cheerful_ look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal
tragedy so lately acted within its walls. The birds were singing
blithely amid the trees,--the lowing of the cows resounded from the
yard,--a delicious perfume from the garden was wafted through the
open window,--at a distance, the church-bells of Willesden were heard
tolling for evening service. All these things spoke of peace;--but
there are seasons when the pleasantest external influences have a
depressing effect on the mind, by painfully recalling past happiness.
So, at least, thought one of two persons who were seated together in
a small back-parlour of the house at Dollis Hill. She was a lovely
girl, attired in deep mourning, and having an expression of profound
sorrow on her charming features. Her companion was a portly handsome
man, also dressed in a full suit of the deepest mourning, with the
finest of lace at his bosom and wrists, and a sword in a black sheath
by his side. These persons were Mr. Kneebone and Winifred.
The funeral, it has just been said, took place on that day. Amongst
others who attended the sad ceremony was Mr. Kneebone. Conceiving
himself called upon, as the intimate friend of the deceased, to pay
this last tribute of respect to her memory, he appeared as one of the
chief mourners. Overcome by his affliction, Mr. Wood had retired
to his own room, where he had just summoned Thames. Much to
her annoyance, therefore, Winifred was left alone with the
woollen-draper, who following up a maxim of his own, “that nothing
was gained by too much bashfulness,” determined to profit by the
opportunity. He had only been prevented, indeed, by a fear of Mrs.
Wood from pressing his suit long ago. This obstacle removed, he
thought he might now make the attempt. Happen what might, he could
not be in a worse position.
“We have had a sad loss, my dear Winifred,” he began,--“for I must
use the privilege of an old friend, and address you by that familiar
name,--we have had a sad loss in the death of your lamented parent,
whose memory I shall for ever revere.”
Winifred's eyes filled with tears. This was not exactly what the
woollen-draper desired. So he resolved to try another tack.
“What a very remarkable thing it is,” he observed, applying to
his snuff-box, “that Thames Darrell, whom we all supposed
dead,”--Kneebone in his heart sincerely wished he _had_ been
so,--“should turn out to be alive after all. Strange, I shouldn't
know him when he called on me.”
“It _is_ strange,” replied Winifred, artlessly. “_I_ knew him at
once.”
“Of course,” rejoined Kneebone, a little maliciously, “but that's
easily accounted for. May I be permitted, as a very old and very dear
friend of your lamented parent, whose loss I shall ever deplore, to
ask you one question?”
“Undoubtedly,” replied Winifred.
“And you will answer it frankly?”
“Certainly.”
“Now for it,” thought the woollen-draper, “I shall, at least,
ascertain how the land lies.--Well, then, my dear,” he added aloud,
“do you still entertain the strong attachment you did to Captain
Darrell?”
Winifred's cheeks glowed with blushes, and fixing her eyes, which
flashed with resentment, upon the questioner, she said:
“I have promised to answer your question, and I will do so. I love
him as a brother.”
“_Only_ as a brother?” persisted Kneebone.
If Winifred remained silent, her looks would have disarmed a person
of less assurance than the woollen-draper.
“If you knew how much importance I attach to your answer,” he
continued passionately, “you would not refuse me one. Were Captain
Darrell to offer you his hand, would you accept it?”
“Your impertinence deserves very different treatment, Sir,” said
Winifred; “but, to put an end to this annoyance, I will tell you--I
would not.”
“And why not?” asked Kneebone, eagerly.
“I will not submit to be thus interrogated,” said Winifred, angrily.
“In the name of your lamented parent, whose memory I shall for ever
revere, I implore you to answer me,” urged Kneebone, “why--why would
you not accept him?”
“Because our positions are different,” replied Winifred, who could
not resist this appeal to her feelings.
“You are a paragon of prudence and discretion,” rejoined the
woollen-draper, drawing his chair closer to hers. “Disparity of rank
is ever productive of unhappiness in the married state. When Captain
Darrell's birth is ascertained, I've no doubt he'll turn out a
nobleman's son. At least, I hope so for his sake as well as my own,”
he added, mentally. “He has quite the air of one. And now, my angel,
that I am acquainted with your sentiments on this subject, I shall
readily fulfil a promise which I made to your lamented parent, whose
loss I shall ever deplore.”
“A promise to my mother?” said Winifred, unsuspiciously.
“Yes, my angel, to _her_--rest her soul! She extorted it from me, and
bound me by a solemn oath to fulfil it.”
“Oh! name it.”
“You are a party concerned. Promise me that you will not disobey
the injunctions of her whose memory we must both of us ever revere.
Promise me.”
“If in my power--certainly. But, what is it! What _did_ you promise?”
“To offer you my heart, my hand, my life,” replied Kneebone, falling
at her feet.
“Sir!” exclaimed Winifred, rising.
“Inequality of rank can be no bar to _our_ union,” continued
Kneebone. “Heaven be praised, _I_ am not the son of a nobleman.”
In spite of her displeasure, Winifred could not help smiling at the
absurdity of this address. Taking this for encouragement, her suitor
proceeded still more extravagantly. Seizing her hand he covered it
with kisses.
“Adorable girl!” he cried, in the most impassioned tone, and with the
most impassioned look he could command. “Adorable girl, I have long
loved you to desperation. Your lamented mother, whose loss I shall
ever deplore, perceived my passion and encouraged it. Would she were
alive to back my suit!”
“This is beyond all endurance,” said Winifred, striving to withdraw
her hand. “Leave me, Sir; I insist.”
“Never!” rejoined Kneebone, with increased ardour,--“never, till
I receive from your own lips the answer which is to make me the
happiest or the most miserable of mankind. Hear me, adorable girl!
You know not the extent of my devotion. No mercenary consideration
influences me. Love--admiration for your matchless beauty alone
sways me. Let your father--if he chooses, leave all his wealth to his
adopted son. I care not. Possessed of _you_, I shall have a treasure
such as kings could not boast.”
“Pray cease this nonsense,” said Winifred, “and quit the room, or I
will call for assistance.”
At this juncture, the door opened, and Thames entered the room. As
the woollen-draper's back was towards him, he did not perceive him,
but continued his passionate addresses.
“Call as you please, beloved girl,” he cried, “I will not stir till
I am answered. You say that you only love Captain Darrell as a
brother--”
“Mr. Kneebone!”
“That you would not accept him were he to offer--”
“Be silent, Sir.”
“He then,” continued the woollen-draper, “is no longer considered--”
“How, Sir?” cried Thames, advancing, “what is the meaning of your
reference to my name? Have you dared to insult this lady? If so--”
“Insult her!” replied Kneebone, rising, and endeavouring to hide his
embarrassment under a look of defiance. “Far from, it, Sir. I have
made her an honourable proposal of marriage, in compliance with the
request of her lamented parent, whose memory--”
“Dare to utter that falsehood in my hearing again, scoundrel,”
interrupted Thames fiercely, “and I will put it out of your power to
repeat the offence. Leave the room! leave the house, Sir! and enter
it again at your peril.”
“I shall do neither, Sir,” replied Kneebone, “unless I am requested
by this lady to withdraw,--in which case I shall comply with her
request. And you have to thank her presence, hot-headed boy, that I
do not chastise your insolence as it deserves.”
“Go, Mr. Kneebone,--pray go!” implored Winifred. “Thames, I
entreat--”
“Your wishes are my laws, beloved, girl,” replied Kneebone, bowing
profoundly. “Captain Darren,” he added, sternly, “you shall hear from
me.”
“When you please, Sir,” said Thames, coldly.
And the woollen-draper departed.
“What is all this, dear Winny?” inquired Thames, as soon as they were
alone.
“Nothing--nothing,” she answered, bursting into tears. “Don't ask me
about it now.”
“Winny,” said Thames, tenderly, “something which that self-sufficient
fool has said has so far done me a service in enabling me to speak
upon a subject which I have long had upon my lips, but have not had
courage to utter.”
“Thames!”
“You seem to doubt my love,” he continued,--“you seem to think that
change of circumstances may produce some change in my affections.
Hear me then, now, before I take one step to establish my origin,
or secure my rights. Whatever those rights may be, whoever I am, my
heart is yours. Do you accept it?”
“Dear Thames!”
“Forgive this ill-timed avowal of my love. But, answer me. Am I
mistaken? Is your heart mine?”
“It is--it is; and has ever been,” replied Winifred, falling upon his
neck.
Lovers' confidences should be respected. We close the chapter.