WEDDED
Next day, oh! joy of joys, Barbara and Anthony met once more after some
fifteen months of separation. Anthony was now in his twenty-fourth
year, a fine young man with well-cut features, brown eyes and a
pleasant smile. Muscularly, too, he was very strong, as was shown by
his athletic record at Cambridge. Whether his strength extended to his
constitution was another matter. Mrs. Walrond, noticing his unvarying
colour, which she thought unduly high, and the transparent character of
his skin, spoke to her husband upon the matter.
In his turn Septimus spoke to the old local doctor, who shrugged his
shoulders and remarked that the Arnotts had been delicate for
generations, “lungy,” he called it. Noticing that Mr. Walrond
looked serious, and knowing something of how matters stood between
Anthony and Barbara, he hastened to add that so far as he knew there
was no cause for alarm, and that if he were moderately careful he
thought that Anthony would live to eighty.
“But it is otherwise with his brother,” he added significantly,
“and for the matter of that with the old man also.”
Then he went away, and there was something in the manner of his going
which seemed to suggest that he did not wish to continue the
conversation.
From Anthony, however, Barbara soon learned the truth as to his brother.
His lungs were gone, for the chill he took in the Crimea had settled on
them, and now there was left to him but a little time to live. This was
sad news and marred the happiness of their meeting, since both of them
were far too unworldly to consider its effect upon their own prospects,
or that it would make easy that which had hitherto seemed impossible.
“Are you nursing him?” she asked.
“Yes, more or less. I took him to the South of England for two months,
but it did no good.”
“I am glad the thing is not catching,” she remarked, glancing at
him.
“Oh, no,” he replied carelessly, “I never heard that it was
catching, though some people say it runs in families. I hope not, I am
sure, as the poor old chap insists upon my sleeping in his room
whenever I am at home, as we used to do when we were boys.”
Then their talk wandered elsewhere, for they had so much to say to each
other that it seemed doubtful if they would ever get to the end of it
all. Anthony was particularly anxious to learn what blessed
circumstance had caused Barbara’s sudden re-appearance at Eastwich.
She fenced for a while, then told him all the truth.
“So you gave up this brilliant marriage for me, a fellow with scarcely
a half-penny and a very few prospects,” he exclaimed, staring at her.
“Of course. What would you have expected me to do—marry one man
while I love another? As for the rest it must take its chance,” and
while the words were on her lips, for the first time it came into
Barbara’s mind that perhaps Anthony had no need to trouble about his
worldly fortunes. For if it were indeed true that Captain Arnott was
doomed, who else would succeed to the estate?
“I think you are an angel,” he said, still overcome by this
wondrous instance of fidelity and of courage in the face of Lady
Thompson’s anger.
“If I had done anything else, I think, Anthony, that you might very
well have called me—whatever is the reverse of an angel.”
And thus the links of their perfect love were drawn even closer than
before.
Only three days later Mr. Walrond was summoned hastily to the Hall. When
he returned from his ministrations it was to announce in a sad voice
that Captain Arnott was sinking fast. Before the following morning he
was dead.
A month or so after the grave had closed over Captain Arnott the
engagement of Anthony and Barbara was announced formally, and by the
express wish of Mr. Arnott. The old gentleman had for years been
partially paralysed and in a delicate state of health, which the sad
loss of his elder son had done much to render worse. He sent for
Barbara, whom he had known from her childhood, and told her that the
sooner she and Anthony were married the better he would be pleased.
“You see, my dear,” he added, “I do not wish the old name to
die out after we have been in this place for three hundred years, and
you Walronds are a healthy stock, which is more than we can say now.
Worn out, I suppose, worn out! In fact,” he went on, looking at her
sharply, “it is for you to consider whether you care to take the
risks of coming into this family, for whatever the doctors may or may
not say, I think it my duty to tell you straight out that in my opinion
there is some risk.”
“If so, I do not fear it, Mr. Arnott, and I hope you will not put any
such idea into Anthony’s head. If you do he might refuse to marry me,
and that would break my heart.”
“No, I dare say you do not fear it, but there are other—well,
things must take their course. If we were always thinking of the future
no one would dare to stir.”
Then he told her that when first he heard of their mutual attachment he
had been much disturbed, as he did not see how they were to marry.
“But poor George’s death has changed all that,” he said,
“since now Anthony will get the estate, which is practically the only
property we have, and it ought always to produce enough to keep you
going and to maintain the place in a modest way.”
Lastly he presented her with a valuable set of diamonds that had
belonged to his mother, saying he might not be alive to do so when the
time of her marriage came, and dismissed her with his blessing.
In due course all these tidings, including that of the diamonds, came to
the ears of Aunt Thompson, and wondrously softened that lady’s anger.
Indeed, she wrote to Barbara in very affectionate terms, to wish her
every happiness and say how glad she was to hear that she was settling
herself so well in life. She added that she should make a point of
being present at the wedding. A postscript informed her that Mr.
Russell was about to be married to an Italian countess, a widow.
Barbara’s wedding was fixed for October. At the beginning of that
month, however, Anthony was seized with some unaccountable kind of
illness, in which coughing played a considerable part. So severe were
its effects that it was thought desirable to postpone the ceremony. The
doctor ordered him away for a change of air. On the morning of his
departure he spoke seriously to Barbara.
“I don’t know what is the matter with me,” he said,
“and I don’t think it is very much at present. But, dear, I have a
kind of presentiment that I am going to become an invalid. My strength
is nothing like what it was, and at times it fails me in a most
unaccountable manner. Barbara, it breaks my heart to say it, but I
doubt whether you ought to marry me.”
“If you were going to be a permanent invalid, which I do not believe
for one moment,” answered Barbara steadily, “you would want a
nurse, and who could nurse you so well as your wife? Therefore unless
you had ceased to care for me, I should certainly marry you.”
Then, as still he seemed to hesitate, she flung her arms about him and
kissed him, which was an argument that he lacked strength to resist.
A day or two afterwards her father also spoke to Barbara.
“I don’t like this illness of Anthony’s, my dear. The doctor
does not seem to understand it, or at any rate so he pretends, and says
he has no doubt it will pass off. But I cannot help remembering the
case of his brother George; also that of his mother before him.. In
short, Barbara, do you think—well, that it would be wise to marry
him? I know that to break it off would be dreadful, but, you see,
health is so very important.”
Barbara turned on her father almost fiercely.
“Whose health?” she asked. “If you mean mine, it is in no
danger; and if it were I should care nothing. What good would health be
to me if I lost Anthony, who is more to me than life? But if you mean
his health, then the greatest happiness I can have is to nurse him.”
“Yes, yes, I understand, dear. But, you see, there might
be—others.”
“If so, father, they must run their risks as we do; that is if there
are any risks for them to run, which I doubt.”
“I dare say you are quite right, dear; indeed, I feel almost sure that
you are right, only I thought it my duty to mention the matter, which I
hope you will forgive me for having done. And now I may tell you I have
a letter from Anthony, saying that he is ever so much better, and
asking if the fifteenth of November will suit us for the wedding.”
On the fifteenth of November, accordingly, Anthony and Barbara were made
man and wife by the bride’s father with the assistance of the
clergyman of the next parish. Owing to the recent death of the
bridegroom’s brother and the condition of Mr. Arnott’s health the
wedding was extremely quiet. Still, in its own way it was as charming
as it was happy. All her five sisters acted as Barbara’s bridesmaids,
and many gathered in that church said they were the most beautiful bevy
of maidens that ever had been seen. But if so, Barbara outshone them
all, perhaps because of her jewels and fine clothes and the radiance on
her lovely face.
Anthony, who seemed to be quite well again, also looked extremely
handsome, while Aunt Thompson, who by now had put off her mourning,
shone in that dim church as the sun shines through a morning mist.
In short, all went as merrily as it should, save that the bride’s
mother seemed depressed and wept a little.
This, said her sister to someone in a loud voice, was in her opinion
nothing short of wicked. What business, she asked, has a woman with six
portionless daughters to cry because one of them is making a good
marriage; “though it is true,” she added, dropping her voice to a
confidential whisper, “that had Barbara chosen she might have made a
better one. Yes, I don’t mind telling you that she might have been a
peeress, instead of the wife of a mere country squire.”
In truth, Mrs. Walrond was ill at ease about this marriage, why she did
not know. Something in her heart seemed to tell her that her dear
daughter’s happiness would not be of long continuance. Bearing in
mind his family history, she feared for Anthony’s health; indeed, she
feared a hundred things that she was quite unable to define. However,
at the little breakfast which followed she seemed quite to recover her
spirits and laughed as merrily as anyone at the speech which Lady
Thompson insisted upon making, in which she described Barbara as “her
darling, beautiful and most accomplished niece, who indeed was almost
her daughter.”