THE FIRST WARNING.
On the following morning Dr. Duncan took the train to Farnham, and full
of delightful anticipation walked over to his sister's cottage.
It was the most lovely spring day imaginable. The young vegetation
glowed beneath the bright sky, and a warm fresh breeze stirred it to
happy music. It was, indeed, the very morning to go a-wooing. All nature
was in harmony with the man's feelings, and he felt all its joyous
sympathy as he walked with buoyant step along the fair English lanes,
and the open moorland tracks, with fancies exultant and blithe as a
lark's morning song.
At last he reached a little iron gate that opened on to the grounds of
the cottage. He passed through it, and followed the path that clove the
shrubbery, whose waving blossoms of lilac and laburnum seemed to whisper
a glad welcome to him. Then, his heart beating fast, he walked on, till
turning round a corner of the bushes, the lawn opened out before him,
with the creeper-covered cottage beyond it.
And then he saw a sight that made him stand quite still suddenly, and
hold his breath with keen emotion.
One who loved him had been watching for him, and had seen him from her
window coming down the road, then she had gone out to meet him.
He saw the young girl walking towards him across the fresh
daisy-sprinkled grass which still sparkled with dew at her feet. Her
hands were slightly extended as if eager to greet him. She wore a
morning dress of white muslin. There was no hat on her head, and the
sunshine gleamed in her tresses. A faint blush lit her cheek, and on her
lips played that smile of pleasure which, when a lover finds his
presence brings it to his mistress, makes him know the most exceeding
happiness this world can give.
He did not move, but stood still, wishing to prolong each stage of his
delight, gazing with adoration at the lovely figure as it approached. So
ethereal a being did she appear in that white robe, with her face pale
save for the faint glow of joy that flushed either cheek; so fair, so
fragile a creature, that she seemed to her lover as of some sweet noble
order of spirits, too high, too pure, for the coarse affections of this
earth; and tears came to his eyes with the tenderness he felt in his
worship of this delicate girl.
She came up to him, and placed her hands in his. He held her at his
arms' length for a few moments, saying nothing, feasting his eyes with
her beauty; then he drew her close to him and kissed her passionately.
She tried to free herself from his grasp with a little low laugh that
only encouraged him to hold her the closer, and they felt their hearts
beat against each other.
When he released her there was a deep colour on her face, and she looked
up at him with a pretty expression, a half smile, half-pout upon her
mouth, as if she did not quite know whether to laugh or cry, be pleased
or angry.
He led her to the bench under the beech-tree, and when they were seated
spoke to her, her hands still held in his.
"My darling! so you have sent for me. Oh, my love! I can see that it is
good news you have to tell me this day."
She made no reply, but he felt her hand tighten its grasp of his.
"Mary! dare I hope at last, that you will allow me to be your friend,
your husband? Have all the difficulties you spoke of been removed?"
"Harry! the shadow has gone from my life. What I feared would be done
will not be done. You were right in what you said. To reveal my secret
now would do no harm nor good to anyone. The mischief of the secret has
gone for ever."
"Thank God!" cried her lover excitedly; "and now, Mary, there is nothing
between us. Keep the secret; do not betray your friends. I do not care
to know it. I understand you, this precious scheme, whatever it was, has
come to nothing, has been abandoned. My darling! What do I care what it
was? I know well it is nothing that should bring blame to your innocent
soul. Poor child! that you should have become the tool of these wicked
designing wretches! But now it is all over. You trust me, Mary, don't
you?"
Another pressure of the hand was a sufficient answer to him.
"Then, Mary, the whole of my life will be devoted to your happiness. Ah!
I never imagined that I could ever love a woman as I do you! Oh, Mary,
Mary! I do not deserve to have been made so happy by you. And you really
will have me as a husband? This is not a dream is it?"
"If you wish it," she whispered; "I will do all you wish."
"All _I_ wish, that is how you always speak; but what do _you_ wish?"
She raised her eyes till they met his, and whatever doubts he might have
held about her feelings towards him, were dispelled by that soft, yet
passionate look.
"Mary, Mary, my love!"
"Harry! my love! my husband! You ask me for my love. Ah! indeed, you
know you have it. Oh, Harry, do you think that all women feel this, do
they love their husbands as dearly as I love you? It seems all so
strange, so wonderful."
He drew her head towards him and kissed the tears from her tender eyes;
suddenly she started.
"Harry!"
"Yes! my dear little girl."
"I must pray."
He looked at her with some surprise. There was a great earnestness in
her eyes as she clung to his hand and exclaimed, "Oh, Harry! you know
how wicked I have been. You know how for many years I did not even
believe in God. I was an atheist!" She shuddered as she uttered the word
in accents of loathing. "And yet, see! he has sent me this wonderful
happiness, this sweet, sweet love. How good this God must be! He is kind
even to me, to me! Do you think he will hear me, will he be pleased if I
pray to him, Harry, if I thank him for all that he has done?"
Her wistful look, the simple pathos of her speech touched the man's
heart and his eyes dimmed, as he cried out passionately in reply, "Oh,
my darling! my dear, dear, little sweetheart! You wicked, indeed! If God
does find pleasure in any prayer, he must surely do so in such true,
pure prayer as yours. You are right, Mary, you are right. We ought,
indeed, to thank God together for having filled our hearts with this
delicious love. I even more than you; for unlike you I have had
everything in my favour, and yet I have lived an irreligious wicked
selfish life. You have taught me a lesson, oh, my sweet little wife!"
* * * * *
Can Heaven itself disclose greater delights than did this glorious May
day for these two! Ah! those golden hours; how the one, who later on
will be left alone in the cold world will recall the magic rapture of
them! Ah, precious hours, glimpses of Paradise, of which so few come to
brighten the long dark days of most of us.
* * * * *
After a time the lovers went indoors, and the doctor told his sister
everything. Poor little Mrs. White, how fussy and excited she was all
that day! I verily believe she was happy as were they themselves on
seeing that matters had been settled definitely at last between these
two people whom she loved so dearly.
At lunch exceedingly high spirits prevailed, high spirits that were not
far removed from tears at times, from so profound depths they sprung.
The little children caught the contagion from their elders and became
very unruly in their merriment; and yet they were not reproved by their
mother, who seemed to have lost her head in the excess of her gladness,
and laughed so much at their pranks that their quick perceptions grasped
the situation in a way; they saw that some very joyful thing had
happened, and that discipline was to be ignored for the day; they
discovered that mother, uncle, and "Auntie Mary," would tolerate
anything, and they profited by the occasion.
"Uncle Harry, have you brought me some chokkies?" asked the little boy,
and was not even rebuked for his rudeness.
Uncle had forgotten all about chocolates this time, but replied, "Bobby,
I'll send you pocketsful of chokkies to-morrow."
"And a boat, Uncle Harry?"
"Yes, and a nice boat, and a new rocking-horse."
The children clapped their hands and shouted with delight; they thought
their elders had surely gone mad, and that the Infant Millenium had
come.
"And a new dolly for me?" cried the eldest girl.
"Yes! and a doll's house too, with lots of furniture," immediately
responded the evidently insane uncle.
But, at last, the nurse, a worthy female, who alone in the establishment
had not altogether lost her head, thought fit to come down and
intervene, and she marched the reluctant youngsters off.
Mrs. White had to attend to her household cares, so the lovers were
again left alone. They had somewhat settled down to their new relations
by this time, so they sat side by side and talked over the vague bright
future before them. They arranged where they would live and so on, and
formed all manner of plans, as is the way of young people in their
situation.
"Why, I feel quite like an old married woman already," said Mary at
last, with a smile.
"You see we know each other pretty well by this time--we are not
strangers to each other," he replied.
"No, Harry! but I can hardly realize all this yet. Poor Mrs. King! what
will become of her?" she exclaimed suddenly, as the recent events
flashed across her mind.
"Oh! she will be all right, I suppose," replied the doctor, who could
hardly be expected to take much interest in Catherine's welfare.
"She was very good to me," said Mary, thoughtfully. "We loved each other
very much."
"How came you to live with her, Mary? I beg your pardon; that may be
part of your secret."
"Oh no! It is not. I can tell you all about that. In fact, I had made up
my mind to tell you some time to-day. You ought to know something about
me before you make me your wife, dear."
"I know quite enough about you, my darling, to know that I shall always
love you very much, and that you deserve the love of a better man than
me," he replied, kissing her.
"Ah! but you will be ashamed of me when I tell you this. Harry, I have
deceived you. Mrs. King is not really my aunt."
"So much the better, my pet. I am very glad to hear it."
"I must tell you who I am, Harry. It has been on my mind for a long time
to do so. Now listen, and don't interrupt me till I have finished."
Dr. Duncan had never before inquired into her history, and now, for the
first time, she told him who her parents were, of her life at Brixton,
how she had run away from home, how she had been kindly treated by the
unfortunate barrister, and how, at last, she had met Catherine King and
had been adopted by her.
When she had completed her narration, she sobbed and covered her face
with her hands. "Ah, Harry!" she cried, "now you know what a wicked girl
I have been. You will not put trust in me any more. Do you hate me now,
Harry?"
"Hate you!" he exclaimed, taking her hands from her face and kissing it.
"You silly little thing! you say that to tease me." He paused a little,
looking into her eyes as he held her head, and then continued in a voice
that shook with strong passion, "You know I trust you--trust you as I
would--as I would--yes!--even as I would trust the good God himself, who
created that pure soul of yours, my queen! Ah! Mary, Mary, you do not
half understand how dear you are to me now!"
"Yes I do, Harry; I have only to think of what you are to me, to
understand it," she said, smiling through her tears.
"It _is_ delicious to hear those words from your lips, Mary!"
"And you are not ashamed of me then, dear, after what I have told you?"
"Ashamed of you? No! prouder of you than ever. It is a strange history
this of yours, Mary. Very few could have come out of such an ordeal
unscathed, as you have done."
"I wish I could tell you all the rest too, dear; I do so wish you knew
my secret. But I have sworn not to reveal it."
"There is now no object for revealing it, pet, except to gratify my idle
curiosity; and I would not have you do that. But I have an important
question to ask you."
"What is it?"
He put his arm round her and drew her close to him. "When are we to be
married?"
"Oh! I have not thought of that yet."
"Well, it is rather sudden; but, Mary, it will do you so much good to
go abroad for awhile. Now, if we are married soon, we can go away
together for a long holiday. I can get someone to do my work for me in
my absence."
So it was settled that the marriage should take place in the course of a
few weeks; and when the sun set that evening, and the lights were lit in
the cottage, there were no happier people in all merry England than the
doctor, his sweetheart, and his sister.
* * * * *
But even on that, the first evening of unalloyed happiness for the
lovers, the stern Fate that seemed to hunt relentlessly the unfortunate
girl put forth her grim finger in warning. While the three were sitting
down in the cosy drawing-room after dinner, the postman's knock was
heard at the door and the maid brought Mary a letter.
"A letter for me!" she exclaimed as she took it, and her face paled, and
a shiver ran through her body as she turned it over in her hands
uneasily without opening it. No one ever wrote to her, and she felt a
foreboding of some great ill. Instinctively she moved her chair a little
nearer to her lover, who was sitting by her, as if to lean upon him for
protection against the unknown danger. He understood that pleading
gesture, and placed his arm firmly round her.
Then she opened the letter, she turned to the signature at the end of it
and saw that it was from Susan Riley. She dropped it again on her lap.
"Harry," she said, "I feel that I am going to read something terrible.
All through this bright day I have felt that such perfect happiness
could not last long, that some misfortune must soon follow."
"Read the letter, dear, and don't be so superstitious," said Mrs. White.
She took it up again and read steadily through it. It ran thus--
"DEAR MARY,--So you have left us. I thought you would. I fear the
Society has gone to the dogs, so I will have to look out for some
other field for my energies. Did the doctor give you my message? I
asked him to tell you that I would never forget my little sister
nurse. You don't trouble much about me, but see how considerate I am
for you. Three weeks ago I saw the enclosed extract in a suburban
paper. I did not send it to you then, fearing that it might give you
a shock in your feeble state of health--little as you loved your
father. But now I hear from Dr. Duncan that you are very much
better, so I forward it to you. The doctor tells me that he will be
with you this evening, so you will have someone by to help you bear
up under your affliction. Accept my condolence for your loss, also
my congratulation on your coming happiness--for I have eyes in my
head, Mary, and I can guess that you will soon be married. I suppose
what has happened will put off the happy day though. I suppose
you'll have a baby or babies. How funny that _one of us_ should go
in for that sort of thing! I promise you that I'll take a great
interest in your life, dear. _I'll stand as fairy god-mother to your
baby._ Good-bye, dear. Yours ever,
"SUSAN."
"_P.S._ Did Dr. Duncan tell you that I have married my cousin?
Sha'n't I make a capital wife?"
The cutting from the newspaper which was enclosed in the letter was an
announcement of her father's death.
Mary read the letter slowly, and each line seemed a separate sting, as
doubtlessly it was intended to be. Little as she loved her father, she
was shocked to hear that he was dead. She had intended to go to him as
soon as she was married, and implore his forgiveness. She had looked
forward to the reconciliation with him, for all her hate had died away
long since. She was troubled, too, by the vague threats the letter
contained, couched though they were in terms of affectionate
solicitude. She felt a great terror when she read the underlined promise
of the woman who hated her, to stand as fairy god-mother to her child.
She could not shake away the fear that the shadow, far away though it
was now, would once again rise up from the horizon to cloud her
happiness; but she stifled these fancies with a great effort, and said,
"Oh, Harry! my poor father is dead."
There were no exaggerated protestations of sympathy where little grief
was felt, but the event cast a chill over the party.
This letter had come at so inopportune a moment, that it could not but
raise forebodings. Even the doctor felt a vague dread, and Mrs. White
was quite upset by what she considered a very bad omen indeed.
No one had spoken for some time, Mary had been holding the letter in her
hand thinking; at last she said, "Harry, I cannot tell whether I ought
to show you this letter. Will you be angry if I don't. There is
something about the secret in it."
"Mary, darling, unless there is something in it you want to preserve, I
should put that letter in the fire. Observe your oath, and don't worry
yourself about showing me everything as if I was suspicious of you. You
know I am not that."
"Thank you, dear; I will burn it then."