MRS. MEREDITH HAS A CONVERSATION WITH MR. TWISSEL.—THE ANNOUNCEMENT,
AND THE INVITATION.
When the servant answered the knock, Mr. Twissel learned, to his severe
disappointment, that Mrs. Meredith was from home; and he was about to
turn from the door, after leaving his name, when the girl said that
her mistress had left a message, the purport of which was, that if he,
Mr. Twissel, was to call, she would feel obliged by his awaiting her
return, as her absence would be but short, and the subject upon which
she wished to see him was one of particular importance.
Mr. Twissel was shown into the parlour much about the same as usual;
but he himself was somewhat of a different state. He himself was
considerably disgusted with his share of the business; but, as we have
before stated, he was resolved never to give in; no, he was resolved to
carry it on to the end.
“It must come to a wind-up somehow or other, and at some time or other;
but, at the same time, as I have taken so much interest in that I am
resolved to see it out, I won’t lose all I have lost for nothing; it
shall be with me a neck or nothing affair; and, however aggravating it
may be, you will have a greater chance in the long run of coming off
victorious.”
Several minutes passed away, and still Mrs. Meredith came not. At
length the attorney began to grow somewhat impatient, and he looked
around the apartment, as if to find some object to pass away the time
until her arrival. On a table in the centre of the room lay several
books, and he opened one or two of them for the purpose of ascertaining
the nature of the contents. The title of one of them attracted his
attention; it consisted of a collection of tales of the supernatural,
and he opened it upon a legend called “The Dead Not Dead.” It possessed
considerable interest, and Twissel was soon lost in its details. It ran
as follows:—
The moon, with her train of glittering satellites following with silent
grandeur in her wake, is sailing, in lustrous glory, through the
heavens, and shedding such a flood of light over the face of nature,
that the mountains and trees look as if some mighty hand had tinted
them with silver.
Our scene is a rocky pass amidst the stupendous Apennines—one of the
wildest, and yet most beautiful of that romantic region.
At the foot of a tree, and on a spot on which the rays of the moon fall
with all their power, sits a young man, who is evidently watching over
what appears to be a dead body that lies prostrate at his feet. His
head is resting on his hand, and he is regarding the form before him
with mingled fear and determination.
Hark! he speaks! What are his words?
“For full an hour have the rays of yonder luminary poured their
radiance upon the ghastly features of my dead master, and yet there
is no effect visible. Surely he must have been labouring under some
fearful delusion of mind, and the dreadful compact of which he has
spoken had existence but in his imagination. I certainly had some
little faith in the existence of those scourges to mankind—vampyres,
but now, I am inclined to think, my faith will be terribly shaken. In
God’s name, I hope it may.”
The moon rose higher and higher, until, as she reached her zenith,
everything was so bathed in her gentle light, that scarcely a shadow
was thrown around, save by the tall pines that were scattered here and
there upon the face of the rocks.
Suddenly there was a movement in the form of the dead man—a spasmodic
jerk of the whole muscles of the frame, as if a galvanic battery had
been applied to it; and then the eyes slowly opened, though at first
there was but little or no expression in them.
The young man started to his feet with an exclamation of horror, and
stood glaring upon the form with fixed and protruding eyes, his limbs
trembling, and every feature distorted with mental agony.
“Holy mother of God!” he murmured, in a low tone, “he moves! he moves!
The terrible compact is too true.”
At this moment, though there was not the slightest appearance of a
cloud in the whole heavens, mutterings of thunder were heard, and the
lightning was seen playing around the tree-tops with a pale and sickly
glare. The young man, so intensely was his attention fixed upon the
corpse at the foot of the tree, did not notice this phenomena; and he
was at length horrified at beholding a ball of blue fire dart from the
air, and glide into the ground immediately at the head of him whom he
had named as his master. Then there was a loud explosion, and a glare
of light so broad and strong that the watcher of the dead was obliged
to veil his eyes with his hands, and he could scarcely tell for some
moments whether he were deprived of his sight or not.
When he opened his eyes again, it was with a start of surprise, for,
before him, with his arms folded on his breast, and regarding him
with a calm and untroubled countenance, stood his master; while the
moonlight streamed out upon the landscape, and as great a silence as
when he lay in death upon the ground reigned around.
“Oh, signor,” he at length stammered, in broken tones—“my vigil has
been one of the most terrible——”
“Silence, Spalatro,” said the resuscitated one, in a deep and hollow
voice—“silence. Not a word, now or henceforth, must pass your lips
respecting what you have seen to night. Breathe but a syllable of what
I am to a human being, and naught on earth shall hide you from my
vengeance.”
Spalatro bowed before his master in obedience, while his frame gave a
shudder of horror, as he regarded the deathly appearance that still
lingered in the signor’s features.
“Spalatro,” resumed the signor, after a slight pause, “you have
rendered me great and faithful service, and your reward has been
proportionate; but there is yet another service which I would seek at
your hands. The Lady Oriana, for the possession of whom the Signor
Fracati and I have fought, and for whose sake I received the wound
which deprived me for a time of life, is at Florence, and at present
ignorant of the mishap that befell me. The Signor Fracati and yourself
are the only persons who are aware of it. He will carry to Florence the
news of my death; and, on my re-appearance before the Lady Oriana, what
tale can I invent to satisfy her? No, no—he must not reach Florence—he
must never look upon the Lady Oriana again. You, Spalatro, wear a
poniard, you have a powerful hand—and you know well where to strike.
Rid me of this hated rival, and wealth shall be yours.”
Spalatro stood rooted to the spot while the signor spoke, and an
expression of mingled horror and disgust crossed his countenance as the
latter proceeded. When the signor had concluded, he stepped a pace or
two back, and in a tone full of indignation, said,—
“Signor Waldeberg, I am no assassin; my poniard is yet guiltless of
shedding human blood. I saw you receive what was thought to be a mortal
wound in honourable combat with the Signor Fracati, and in these arms I
beheld you sink in death. You had extorted from me a promise that after
a certain lapse of time I would convey your body to this vast solitude,
and lay it where the moonbeams should fall upon it; for that then life
should once more revisit you. All this I have done, and faithfully; I
feared to fail in my promise, for I knew the penalty you would pay if
you failed to fulfil the conditions of your compact. But, signor, I
am now no longer bound to you; you have commenced a fresh existence,
which you would baptise with blood; you have passed the portals of
death, and I will no longer serve you. I will seek another service and
another master, who will require less at my hands, though his pay may
be lighter. Farewell, signor, and better thoughts to you.
Spalatro turned upon his heel as he spoke, and with a hasty wave of his
hand was leaving the spot, when the signor drew a pistol from a belt
that was fastened round his waist, and, exclaiming, “He knows too much
respecting me to be suffered to live,” fired it full at the head of the
young man. The latter uttered a yell of agony which echoed loudly amid
the awful silence, and fell lifeless on the earth. When the smoke from
the pistol had cleared away, that lonely spot was deserted save by the
body of Spalatro, whose blood, streaming upon the ground, reflected the
moonbeams with a dull red glare.
[Illustration: Signor Waldeberg shoots Spalatro in the head.]
• • • • •
When the morning sun broke over the mountain tops, its rays fell upon
the form of the still insensible Spalatro. It was but seldom that any
footsteps, save those of the wolf or the goat, left their impress
on those rocks, and it was almost a miracle that the body of the
unfortunate man was not left a prey to the former.
About an hour after daybreak, the bells of a string of mules were heard
in the distance, accompanied by the cheerful song of the muleteer.
A short time sufficed to bring the cavalcade to the spot, where lay
the body of Spalatro, and the muleteer, with a cry of alarm, brought
his train to a stop. Finding that life still remained, the humane
mountaineer raised him from the ground, placed him across one of the
mules, and then hastened forward to the next inn, which, however, was
at some miles distance.
On arriving there, he found that the only apartment was occupied by
a signor and his daughter, who, however, when the condition of the
wounded man was made known to them, instantly relinquished it to him,
and, after seeing his wounds looked to, ascertained that no mortal
result was to be feared, and giving orders that he should want for no
attention that money could procure, they pursued their journey.
It was many weeks before Spalatro recovered, and when he did regain
his strength, he learned, with a feeling of deep gratitude, that the
lady who had been so instrumental in his recovery was no other than the
Signora Oriana. In an instant a vow was upon his lips that he would
save her from the power of the fearful monster, whose only mission
now on earth, seemed but to destroy the most beautiful of nature’s
creation. With this purpose fixed in his mind, he one morning bid adieu
to the residents of the little inn, and set off on his self-imposed
errand.
• • • • •
Some days after the scene we have described as occurring on that lonely
mountain pass, a report reached Florence, where the Signora Oriana
was then staying with her father, that the Signor Fracati had met his
death at the hands of a bravo, and that his body had been discovered
stabbed in innumerable places. The grief of Oriana was intense, for she
held the signor in great estimation, and she would have had but little
hesitation in bestowing upon him her hand, if her father’s consent
could but have been gained to the union. Signor Vivaldi, however,
had been captivated by the great wealth, personal appearance, and
captivating manners of the Signor Waldeberg, and he had fixed his mind
upon him becoming the husband of his daughter.
Weeks passed away, and the memory of the murdered Fracati was gradually
fading from the mind of Oriana. The respectful yet warm attentions of
Waldeberg won upon a young and innocent heart that had always felt a
slight esteem for him, and as she knew that her father’s happiness in a
great measure depended upon her consent to the union, it was at length
given with a freedom that brought joy to the old man’s heart.
It was arranged that the ceremony should take place at a chateau
belonging to Waldeberg, in the neighbourhood of Lucca, whither it was
resolved at once to proceed; and for this purpose Signor Vivaldi and
his daughter, accompanied by Waldeberg, left Florence for that city.
As they were passing through the gates, a monk, with his cowl
drawing carefully over his face, stepped hastily up to the carriage
window, and, thrusting a letter into the hands of Oriana, as hastily
disappeared.
[Illustration: A cowled monk thrusts a letter into the hands of Oriana
in the carriage.]
With some surprise, she opened it and read it, and then a paleness
overspread her countenance, and she sank back in her seat almost
insensible. Her father snatched the paper from her trembling hand, and
hastily glancing over its contents, with a look of anger, handed it to
the Signor Waldeberg.
“See, signor, what some meddling fool, envious of your happiness,
has done to alarm my daughter’s fears. Does he deem us so grossly
superstitious as to believe in such children’s tales?”
The signor took the paper, which he found to run thus:—
“+Signora+,—A grateful heart warns you. Wed not the murderer of
Fracati—wed not him who, once returned from death to life, seeks but
your hand to provide a victim for the purpose of prolonging a hateful
existence. If you despise this warning, at any rate, postpone the
ceremony but for seven days from hence, and then his power of injuring
you will have departed from him.”
“Do you know the writer, signor?” asked Vivaldi.
“It is evidently the handwriting of a servant of mine, whom I dismissed
for insolence some few weeks since,” returned Waldeberg, a shade of
vexation evidently passing across his brow; “and he now takes this
means of endeavouring to obtain his revenge. But I will take means of
having him punished.”
They now endeavoured to soothe the agitation of Oriana, but the
incident seemed to have taken a firm hold upon her imagination, and, in
spite of all their efforts, she found it impossible to shake off the
effect it had upon her.
The chateau, the place of their destination, was at length reached;
preparations were instantly commenced for the celebration of the
marriage, which was to take place, by the Signor Waldeberg’s express
desire, on the sixth day from that on which they had left Florence.
As the day drew near, the spirits of Oriana grew gradually depressed,
and a slight feeling of dread seemed to steal over her, whenever she
found herself in the presence of her lover. Her father questioned her
as to its cause, and then she confessed that the mysterious warning she
had received preyed deeply on her mind. It might be a superstitious
weakness, but she could not repress it; and she requested her father,
however reluctant he might be, to consent to put it off for at least
another day.
The entreaties of his daughter, though he laughed at her fears,
prevailed upon the old man, and he gave his consent to her request;
but when he mentioned the alteration in the time to Waldeberg, the
countenance of the latter underwent a complete change to the hue of
death. No prayer, however, could prevail upon the old man to recall his
consent to his daughter’s wish, and the signor departed evidently in a
state of the greatest despair.
That night the Signora Oriana was missing from her chamber, and though
the strictest search was made for her, not the least trace of her
presence could be found. The grief of the father and the lover knew no
bounds, and there seemed to be no hope of consolation for them.
• • • • •
It is the night of the sixth day—that day against which Oriana had been
so mysteriously warned. In a large vault, far beneath the chateau,
and lighted by innumerable torches, that threw a red and smoky glare
around, stood the beautiful Oriana and the Signor Waldeberg. The former
was pale as marble, and an expression of the most intense despair was
upon her countenance.
The signor, resolved that she should become his wife before the
expiration of the six days, had torn her from her chamber, and immured
her in that fearful place, with the hope of forcing her to become his
bride; but Oriana revolted at such usage, and feeling more convinced
than ever that the warning she had received had its foundation in
truth, had resisted alike his persuasions and his threats.
The hour of midnight was fast approaching, and before an altar that
stood at one end of the vault, was an old and venerable priest,
with an open book in his hand. Waldeberg drew Oriana towards him,
and forced her to kneel at the foot of the altar. She entreated—she
supplicated—she appealed to the priest; his only answer was a solemn
shake of the head, and then he proceeded to read the marriage ceremony.
Waldeberg took her hand—but she suddenly flung it from her, and uttered
the most piercing screams that echoed fearfully amidst those cavernous
places. Still the priest read on, and despite her emotion and her agony
of terror, Waldeberg regarded her with a cold and determined gaze.
“Faster! faster!” he muttered to the priest, “or all will be lost!” and
he glanced anxiously around the vault.
At the moment, striking fearfully on the silence, came the sound of
the turret clock telling the hour of midnight. On the first stroke,
the most fearful sounds the human ear ever listened to filled the
place—strange indefinite shadows flitted around, filling the air with
a rushing sound, as if of mighty wings—the altar changed to a heap
of human bones—the priest to a ghastly skeleton. Then came darkness,
terrible and distinct; and Oriana swooned upon the damp floor.
When she recovered, she found the day had broken, and the sunlight was
streaming upon her face; while her father and the young man whom she
had seen wounded at the inn on the mountains were stooping over her in
alarm.
The inhabitants of the chateau had been alarmed in the dead of the
night by a terrific storm, which had thrown into ruins a part of the
castle, and a vast chasm had been made in the foundations, disclosing
the vaults, the existence of which had been until then unknown.
Beneath the rich vestments of Waldeberg, and lying in a heap on the
ground, were the remains of a human skeleton—all that was now left of
the guilty being who had thus paid the penalty for failing in complying
with the conditions of the fearful compact into which he had entered
with the unholy powers of darkness.
It was many months before the mind of Oriana recovered its strength,
and when it did, she entered a convent of Ursuline nuns, and
endeavoured to forget, in the consolations of religion, the fearful
trial she had undergone.
• • • • •
Twissel laid down the book which he had been reading, and fell into a
strange kind of musing, in which the vampyre, Waldeberg, and the East
India colonel were strangely mixed up together. From this reverie he
was awakened by a rap at the street-door, and then, in a few minutes
afterwards, Mrs. Meredith entered the room, exclaiming,—
“Well, Mr. Twissel, you always come in luck’s way.”
“Indeed!” said Mr. Twissel, involuntarily thinking of what he had that
morning undergone, as well as what he went through a day or two before;
and, for the life of him, he saw not what might be called luck, unless
it was that species known as ill-luck.
“Yes, Mr. Twissel, you are; you’ve just come in time to hear the news.”
“What news, ma’am—what news? If you’ll be pleased to enlighten me upon
that subject, I shall be better able to understand what you allude to.”
“Why, you see, the colonel has been so pressing, that my daughter has
been induced to name the day. Yes, Mr. Twissel, she has named the
day—not a distant day either. He begged and entreated you don’t know
how hard, which, at least, shows how much he meant it.”
“Well, truly, it is news, Mrs. Meredith,” said the attorney; “but, at
the same time, it is what I expected, though not just at this juncture.
The fact is, there is but little can be said against Colonel Deverill;
but, at the same time, there will be but little said for him. I am by
no means sure that there will be any property found. If he were a man
of money, he would not hesitate to lay his circumstances open.”
“He is too proud a man for that.”
“Well, it may be all very well to attribute it to that cause. However
that may be, there can be no doubt you have a right to do as you
please, and I bow to your decision; but, still, I do so, having
expressed my opinion to the contrary, being very suspicious of him.
But, as I said before, you are entitled to do what you please in the
affair; I have no right to do more.”
“My daughter and I have been considering the matter over and over
again, and we have come to the conclusion that it should take place,
and she has consented that it should take place in about ten days’
time, when we shall expect to have your company, Mr. Twissel.”
“I am obliged to you, and assure you my opinions upon this matter are
not at all personal. I will meet the colonel, and I will be present
with you all on that happy occasion with much pleasure; and I hope it
will be a fortunate and happy marriage.”
“I hope so, too,” said Mrs. Meredith; “and I have every reason to
believe so.”
“That is good,” said the attorney.
“And now, Mr. Twissel,” said Mrs. Meredith, “what did you do this
morning at the South Sea House? I could not send to you so early as I
could have wished, as I did not know he was going till the coach was
ordered, and he went away almost immediately. I then sent Mary to you;
I don’t know at what time she came to you, but at all events she was
not back here until late.”
“She must have got to my place in good time, if she only started after
the colonel had left this house,” said the attorney.
“I am very glad of that, at all events; but what success did you have?”
“Success, indeed,” said Mr. Twissel, with a shrug of mortification. “I
have only succeeded in getting myself into a very serious difficulty,
and the colonel has eluded me again. I can’t understand it all. I don’t
know what to think; but I am sure of this, that I have been in a series
of disasters ever since I undertook to follow him about, and I have
discovered nothing concerning him.”
“What has happened to you to-day, then?” inquired Mrs. Meredith.
“Oh! as for that, what seems to be but natural in itself; and,
therefore, it may be said not to be connected with him; indeed, though
that were really the case, yet there is so much concurrent action, I
cannot divest myself of the idea that it is a fatal affair, as far as
regards looking after him.”
“Then don’t do so any more, Mr. Twissel.”
“I’ll never give in,” said Twissel.
“Well, but what need you trouble yourself more about the affair? I
assure you we’re all well satisfied that Colonel Deverill is Colonel
Deverill, and that he has property; that being the case, I am sure you
have nothing to trouble yourself about, or to blame yourself for.”
“I am conscious of that,” said the attorney, rubbing his knee. “I have
done all I can; and I have given my advice—I hope I have done my part.”
“Yes, you have,” said Mrs. Meredith. “I am quite satisfied; but what
has happened to you?”
“I will tell you, my dear madam—I will tell you. I have been assaulted,
knocked about, robbed, and my faculties all confused, and no use to
me. I have lost my handkerchief, watch, and purse; and I have had
my trowsers ripped open; and I can’t tell what besides. I am safe,
however.”
“Well, that is right, at all events; but it is most annoying to me that
you should be subject to those terrible accidents. I can’t understand
the meaning of it.”
“I can’t,” said the attorney.
“But why should you, more than any one else, be subject to these
misfortunes? I can’t understand it at all, Mr. Twissel. Perhaps you do
something or other unusual on such occasions, which had been the cause
of such terrible trouble.”
“Not that I am aware of,” said Twissel; “but the fact is, I don’t
know of anything peculiar in my appearance or behaviour, that should
cause this disaster. But I am sure of this, that there is nothing more
singular about me, than what there usually is; and why it should only
attract notice on these occasions and no other, I cannot tell.”
“Nor I. Well, I suppose it must have been there was some other
circumstance, independent alike of him and you, that has caused this
disagreeable affair.”
“Perhaps there might be.”
“Well, now, Mr. Twissel, there’s another affair I wish to speak to you
about; or, rather, it’s a thing my daughter Margaret should speak to
your daughter Elizabeth and Miss Martha about. You see, as they are not
very often together, I thought it right to speak to you first.”
“Yes, ma’am—go on, pray.”
“Well, my Margaret is to be married in a few days, Now, we don’t want
relatives at all; and I was advising her to beg your permission to have
the two young ladies whom I have named, as bridesmaids, and who will be
of essential service to my daughter.”
“I have no doubt but they will feel very much gratified with the
proposal; and one could not have been better devised than this one to
please them.”
“Then, will you invite them to come here, and spend the evening with
Margaret and yourself, Mr. Twissel, the first evening you find leisure
and inclination?”
“Well, I have destroyed to-day, so far as a business day, by drinking
brandy-and-water early, and I may as well finish it in an agreeable
manner.”
“That is very good; we shall expect you to tea this evening.”
“You may,” said Mr. Twissel; “if you are not otherwise engaged. I
may as well do all that is necessary, so as to have as little to do,
by-and-bye, as possible. Has the colonel come home?”
“No, not yet; I did not expect him to come home so soon as this, but he
will be back in a very short time, now, I dare say.”
“Then I will bid you good bye, for it will be unnecessary to meet him
in this plight; indeed, he might think I paid him no respect to do so;
and besides it will be better, altogether, that he should not see me
so soon, lest he should have caught sight of me in the city; which,
indeed, I think wholly impossible, for I only had a distant glimpse of
him.”
“Then, good bye, sir; I shall see you and the young ladies.”
“Both—my daughter, and her young friend, Martha.”
Mr. Twissel arose, and left the house to return to his own house, and
get his daughter prepared for the visit, and her friend also, while
Mrs. Meredith and her daughter, Margaret, consulted together, as to
what would be the best method of doing honour to the occasion of the
forthcoming marriage.
“You see, my dear,” said Mrs. Meredith, “we cannot very well invite
our own friends, because they are such a greedy, rapacious set; they
would sooner spoil a good chance for us than let us have it unmolested;
they are by far too greedy—no, no, they must not come—they will think
themselves injured if they cannot share the harvest.”
“And all will be lost.”
“To be sure; and, moreover, we could not shake them off when we wanted,
and which we must do very soon, for the colonel will never abide them.”
“No, ma’ I think not, indeed—they are decidedly low people, who are
genteel only of a Sunday; it will never do to have such people about
us.”
“Oh, dear, no.”
“Here is the colonel come back; see if that girl has got the water
hot, he will like his tea early; I am quite sure she hasn’t got it
ready—what a provoking girl that is, to be sure. She does nothing all
day; I must get rid of her.”
“Yes; but she is very ugly.”
“That is one great recommendation in her favour,” said Mrs. Meredith;
“one very great recommendation; it ensures domestic peace, to say the
least of it, and there’s not so many followers usually. Now, however,
we must do the best until we have more; but here he is.”
At that moment the colonel entered the house, and proceeded at once to
the drawing-room, having first divested himself of his hat and cloak in
the passage. Up stairs was a good fire and an easy chair, with ottomans
for his feet, and a comfortable well furnished apartment it was.
Mrs. Meredith followed him up and entered the room after him, to
inquire what he would like done next; and with her assistance, he took
his boots off and put on a pair of splendid slippers, and reposed with
a groan of satisfaction on the chair.
“I think, Mrs. Meredith,” he said, “that the best thing I can have will
be some tea. Where is Margaret? when she is at liberty, I wish to see
and speak to her.”
“She will be here in a few moments, colonel,” said Mrs. Meredith; “I
will send her to you.”
“No hurry for a few moments,” said the colonel.
“Something about the jewels, I’ll be sworn,” said Mrs. Meredith, to
herself; “I wonder what he has in that parcel; a present, I dare say.”
Mrs. Meredith sought Margaret, and related what the colonel said, with
his desire to see her, and that young lady at once proceeded to the
drawing-room.
“Oh, my dear Margaret,” said Colonel Deverill, “I see you are pleased
to see I have returned; your very eyes tell me so. Come here to me,
dearest.”
“Ah, my looks, I am afraid, say too much.”
“Not at all—not at all,” said the colonel; “I love to see them,
especially when I know they are sincere, when they come from the heart,
you know; I love to see innocent and heartfelt satisfaction beaming
from such a face as yours.”
“Oh, colonel, you are really too complimentary; not that I think you
don’t mean what you say, but your partiality is too great to allow you
to judge as a stranger would.”
“I do not desire to judge as a stranger would; it does not give me any
satisfaction. To look upon you with the eyes of a lover, is a privilege
I most desire, and very soon with those of a husband; then my happiness
will be complete. How I long for the days and the hours to fly by—they
cannot go too fast now; by and bye they may pass as slowly as you
please—that done, then I am quite content, because I shall pass them
happily, rapturously.”
“Ah, you are so kind-hearted, so good, that I can never repay you.”
“Do not seek to do so, you will only make me the heavier in debt; but
come, there is a small parcel, with a few trinkets I have purchased;
the jewels I spoke of are in hand, and they will be ready in time for
our marriage.”
“Nay, do not think about them—not to disturb yourself, colonel; I am
quite content if I am dressed as befits the occasion; but I am really
obliged to you for your present, whatever it may be; and I may as well
tell you I have thought—indeed, I have said as much—I should like to
have a couple of female friends to visit me on that occasion.”
“Yes, my dear, you may depend upon it. I shall be the more happy when I
know you are so too; but no matter, ask whom you please; as far as I am
able, I will make them welcome and happy. I suppose, however, you are
alluding to your bridesmaids.”
“I am,” said Margaret.
“I shall be most happy to see them, or any friend you may desire,”
added the colonel.
“And will you have no one on the occasion?” inquired Margaret; “won’t
you have somebody to keep you in countenance upon the occasion?”
“No,” said the colonel, “I shall not; I have no friends with whom I
am intimate enough, that I know of, at this present moment; there may
be people in London, with whom I have been, in India, intimate with,
but I do not know for certain; but time and accident will turn up old
friends, and I have not the desire to seek for them; but if we must
have some one, I do not know whether Mr. Twissel would not do quite as
well, if he would come, and your mother had no objection.”
“I am sure she would not. Mr. Twissel was an old friend of my father’s,
and, consequently, he would be no stranger at all to the family;
besides, it is his daughter, and her friend, Martha, that I have
invited upon this occasion; have I done wrong?”
“Not at all, it could not have happened better; I am sure they must be
very worthy people, and any one whom you please, or they know, that
you feel disposed to invite, do so, with the confidence that whatever
pleases you on the occasion, will please me.”
At that moment there was an alarming rapping at the door, which caused
them to pause a few moments; then they continued their conversation
until the servant announced to Miss Meredith, that Miss Twissel, her
papa, and her friend, Martha, were come.