MARY WYTHBURN’S WEDDING.
John Dallington had his own troubles to bear, although they were of a
different character from those of Arthur Knight. For a few weeks he
rejoiced greatly in his heritage, while the land of his fathers grew
dearer to him day by day; and then he learnt that only a part of it was
really his own, and that some of it had been mortgaged. That there could
be a debt upon his inheritance was a possibility that had never once
occurred to him; and the fact was an exceedingly bitter one—indeed, he
had not known how to bear it. Years afterward he remembered the lawyer’s
office in which the unwelcome news was told him so distinctly that he
knew the pattern of the paper on the wall and the number of panes in the
window.
“I will redeem it,” he said; “I could not bear to let even a bit of the
land go. It will take me years to do it, no doubt, but if I live it
shall be accomplished.”
“A very worthy ambition,” replied the solicitor, who was sorry for the
young man, and sympathised with him. “It is a good thing to have an
object in life—keeps a man out of mischief, you know, and helps him to
put forth his best powers. I assure you, Mr. Dallington, that there is
nothing like trouble of this sort for making a man of you.”
But it was with a sore heart and rueful countenance that Dallington
betook himself to his farm. He had been so sure that it was his, to do
as he liked with, and his fancy had painted glowing pictures of what he
would do for his mother, and his cottage tenants afterwards. And now he
must economise, and deny himself the pleasure of making improvements,
and must be careful of his own personal expenses. The thought made him
sigh; not that he had extravagant habits, but because he had already
hoped to persuade the lady of his heart to begin with him the new life
which was before him. That was out of the question now, and he must not
seek her, nor even think of her.
So he said to himself as he was moodily making his way home, and he had
no sooner said it than his heart gave a leap of joy, for, there before
him, in the little woodland path, coming towards him with a flush upon
her beautiful face, and her eyes shining like stars, was Margaret
Miller. She was used to these woods and loved them; but she would not
have been there that day had she expected to meet him there. She
steadied herself to speak to him with quiet friendliness, but he took
both her hands, and gazed in her face, with his heart in his eyes, and
could only say, “Margaret, Margaret!”
So they stood for a few moments, and a year of happiness was in them;
and then John remembered! If it had happened yesterday he would have
poured forth his love in a torrent of words, and asked her at once to be
his wife; but now he must not, for stern duty forbade. As for Margaret,
she had not forgotten; and though, for an instant, her heart sank with
dismay lest he had read the truth, she soon recovered herself, and
helped him to do the same. But all the pain went from him, and when he
turned and walked back with her, and the sweet summer sun kissed them
both, while the birds sang as if in sympathy with their joy, he felt
strong enough and brave enough to do everything. And he took her at once
into his confidence. Every one else did the same; it was wonderful how
many secrets of sorrow had been given to Margaret to keep, young as she
was; but it was no wonder that Dallington felt the comfort and strength
of her sympathy. It was not news to Margaret that John Dallington was
not a rich man, for in a little place like Darentdale few things are
altogether hidden, and she could not feel as sorry for his pain as she
was glad to learn in what the chief pain consisted.
“I was hoping,” he said, “that there might not be a really poor person
on my estate. I meant every man to have a chance—and every woman, too.
The cottages need rebuilding badly, and the labourers ought to have some
share in the land; but what am I to do now?”
“It would not make much difference to your income,” said Margaret,
gently, “if you gave them half of one of your meadows as allotments or
gardens; and that would probably furnish each of your labourers with a
strip of ground. Even if they had it rent free you would not lose very
much; but if you let them have it for the value of the grass it would
not cost them much either. It is too bad of those farmers who charge the
men higher rents for small pieces than they would get for the larger
ones.”
John Dallington saw his way at once. “To be sure, I can do that,” he
said. “I intended to put a garden to each cottage; but it does not
matter where it is, and I have a field that will do for that purpose
exactly.”
“And you have a stone quarry. Why not allow your men to use your stone,
and enlarge or rebuild their own cottages? Labour is even more costly
than materials, and you might save that if you could induce the men to
do the work themselves. But I expect you would have to grant them
leases, unless they trust you more than they do most masters, so that
they could have no fear or possibility of being turned out of the places
they had renovated.”
John thought it was beautiful of her to be so much interested; and was
she not as sensible as she was good? Then they talked together of old
times, and every care vanished from them both.
“I shall see you to-morrow,” he said, as they parted. “I am going to
Miss Wythburn’s wedding.”
The next day dawned auspiciously in Scourby, a manufacturing town at the
head of Darentdale, where the wedding was to take place.
Mrs. Wythburn’s face was a little tearful on that morning, for Mary was
her only child, and the mother’s heart was full of solicitude. But with
the self-repression characteristic of mothers she was prepared to put
her own feelings on one side, and meet her friends with smiles as bright
as she could make them.
The father of the bride did not pretend to smile at all, and made no
secret of his sentiments in regard to weddings. He had been in a chronic
state of grumblement since the day was fixed. “They say that a man’s
house is his castle; mine is much more like a fancy fair,” he said.
“People have been coming in at all my doors as if they had a right; the
only person who has seemed to have no right to be upon the premises is
myself. I shall be glad when the fuss is over.”
His wife was not disconcerted by this pretence at ill-temper, for she
knew how much—or, rather, how little—it meant; and was assured that her
husband would be genial enough when the time arrived for his
after-breakfast speech. For she knew that Mr. Wythburn would not on any
account have had things other than they were, since he had long wished
to see his daughter married to his oldest neighbour.
Some of Mary’s friends thought it a pity. The two were so entirely
different that it was doubtful if they had any tastes or feelings in
common. Alfred Greenholme was inactive, self-indulgent, unambitious.
Everything was too great an exertion for him. He never wanted even to
play at tennis, nor to dance at an evening party. “There was no harm in
him,” people said. “He was a good-natured sort of fellow enough;” but he
positively seemed to care for nothing but lounging about and smoking
cigars. But Mary Wythburn was full of intense, vivid life. She had an
enormous capacity for work, and she used this capacity to the utmost.
Quiet, and even timid, in manner, she had such perfect control over
herself that few guessed how keen was her desire to know and to do. She
was an exceedingly clever girl, and had availed herself to the utmost of
all the educational advantages which the modern spirit of fairness has
granted to women, and at school, college, and university she had gained
distinctions and carried off prizes. Her father and mother had not
hindered her; but she knew that though they could not help feeling a
little proud of her successes, they did not altogether approve of her.
They had her portrait taken in the college cap and gown which became her
so well; and they said that, since the letters which she had the right
to put after her name meant something, she ought to use them; but they
both considered it a little unwomanly to be too clever, and wished that
she would settle down and be married.
In another respect they scarcely understood their daughter. Her nature
was intensely sensitive and sympathetic. She knew what it was to weep
over sorrows that were none of hers, and to be punished for sins which
she had not committed. Pain, want, wickedness, and woe were spectres
that haunted the girl, and would not let her forget them. Moreover, Mary
was grievously beset by doubt, which she endured in loneliness because
the least expression of it so shocked those whom she loved that she had
not the courage to say all that was in her mind. She had once declared,
with flushed face and dilated eyes, on returning from visiting a woman
who was dying of cancer, that she did not, could not, would not believe
that the poor creatures who were so badly off in this world would be
also punished in the next, even for their sins. Her father and mother,
secure and comfortable in their church-going consummateness, believing
all that they ought to believe, and never troubling themselves further,
asked her sternly if she read her Bible now. Truth to tell, she read it
very little. She tried to reconcile that which she knew was in it with
that which she saw in the world, and finding the two apparently
irreconcilable she yielded to unbelief; and because she could not
herself believe, began to doubt the honesty of those who did. Poor Mary
had lost her child’s faith in the Fatherhood of God, and had failed to
apprehend the meaning of the sacrifice of His Son.
She sorely needed some one to help her. She was not in the least brave,
though she was clever, and had simply drifted into an engagement with
Mr. Greenholme.
But when the wedding was drawing near she filled her mother with
consternation.
“Mother,” she said, “I am really not sure that I can marry Alfred after
all.”
“Oh, my dear child! how you frighten me! What do you mean?”
“I don’t believe I care for him as people generally do care when they
are going to be married.”
“Is there any one else for whom you care, Mary?”
“Oh, no, mother! There is not any one whom I like better than Alfred;
and he is very kind to me; but I do not want to be married at all.”
“That will come right, my dear. I am sure you would not like to be an
old maid; no woman does. Oh, yes, you may think now you would not mind,
because you are young; but you would be very miserable afterward, and as
Alfred’s wife you will have every comfort. You must not think of
anything now but your promise.”
So the preparations went on, and every one was pleased with Mary.
It was to be a quiet wedding. The three bridesmaids—Mary’s girl-friends,
the Misses Copeland, Miller, and Whitwell—had arrived on the previous
evening, since they all lived some distance from Scourby. Miss Copeland
was a tall and graceful young lady who, for some reason or other,
appeared ill-tempered and irritable; Miss Miller was quiet and happy;
and Miss Whitwell as merry as a cricket.
Dr. Stapleton, a friend of the family, called early, and asked after the
health of the bride. “I am now going to see her,” said Mrs. Wythburn;
and she went away wearing the bright look of love which makes mothers’
faces so beautiful.
But in a few minutes she came back, looking quite changed. Her face had
lost its colour, and she trembled so that she could scarcely walk. She
seemed to have become suddenly blind, for although the drawing-room door
stood open she appeared to be feeling for the handle.
The only person who observed her was Margaret Miller, who saw at a
glance that either Mrs. Wythburn had been taken suddenly ill, or
something dreadful had happened. Swiftly and silently Margaret went to
her side, and, closing the door behind them, led the shaking women into
the dining-room.
“What is the matter, Mrs. Wythburn? I hope nothing is wrong. Where is
Mary?”
Mrs. Wythburn tried to speak, but at first no words could be uttered.
Margaret was as tender as a daughter. “Don’t be frightened, my dear,
whatever it is,” she said. “There is a little mistake, somehow, perhaps.
Or a little sudden faintness, which will pass off presently.”
After a time Mrs. Wythburn managed to gasp out a few words. “Margaret,
there is great trouble. I do not know what it is. Fetch my husband.”
They had been married many years, but they were a very kindly Darby and
Joan, and the wife felt as if she could not break to her husband the
news that she had to tell.
“Why, Martha, what is the matter?”
“Oh, John, God help us, for something terrible has happened!”
“Don’t give way, dearie; we have borne some troubles together, and we
will meet this. Tell me what it is. Is it anything about Mary?”
“Yes, it is. Mary—Mary is gone!”
“Gone where?”
“Ah, that is it! Mary has not slept in her room, and she is not in the
house. No one has seen her this morning, and she is not to be found
anywhere. I have questioned the servants; I have searched every room.”
Here the poor woman’s feeling quite overcame her, and Mr. Wythburn
placed her on the couch and went straight to his daughter’s apartment.
It was true. The dainty little room was in perfect order, save for the
wedding finery that overflowed the wardrobe and occupied some of the
chairs. The bed was not disturbed, and the gas was burning as it was
last night. There was not a scrap of paper anywhere to explain the
strange absence of the bride; only one thing was certain—that she was
gone! Vague fears took possession of the father’s mind: there must have
been foul play, for surely no girl in her senses would run away from her
own wedding! But what was to be done? Of course there could be no
marriage without a bride, and the bridegroom must be warned. Mr.
Wythburn tried to control himself, but his face was ghastly and his
hands were shaking. His thoughts turned to Margaret Miller: he knew that
she would keep her senses and prove reliable, and at that moment she
appeared.
“What is it, Mr. Wythburn? Mary is not here. Ah! do not be unnecessarily
alarmed; Mary will explain it. Nothing has happened to her.”
“But, Margaret, where can my child be, and what is to be done? Alfred
Greenholme——”
“Yes; I will ask Dr. Stapleton to fetch him, and to see that the church
remains closed. I will manage it. We will not have more talk than we can
help. And, Mr. Wythburn, do not give way to grief. Be sure that it will
all come right in the end. Oh, be sure that Mary is to be trusted! She
will, perhaps, be here presently, and laugh at all our fears.”
Margaret went at once to the room where Dr. Stapleton still waited. He
was standing and looking eagerly toward the door when it was opened. He
seemed to have a prevision of some catastrophe.
“What is it?” he said. “Something wrong with Mary, isn’t it? Tell me
what it is. Is she ill?”
Margaret noticed that he looked white, as if with fear, and that he used
her Christian name when speaking of Miss Wythburn.
“Yes; I think there is no doubt that she is ill. I had better tell you
all the truth, Dr. Stapleton, for we are both Mary’s friends and the
friends of the family. Mary, for some reason, left her home last night.
Her room was not disturbed, and no one has seen her this morning, or has
the slightest idea where she can be.”
Dr. Stapleton said nothing. He caught Margaret’s hands and held them
forcibly, looking in her face with staring eyes.
“Dr. Stapleton, please, I want you to help us. Some one must go to Mr.
Greenholme’s house. Will you go and ask Alfred to come here at once? And
will you tell the sexton not to open the church until he hears from us?
But it will be better to say nothing of what has happened.”
Still Stapleton did not speak or move.
“I think Mary will be here directly, do not you? I cannot imagine her
doing anything unusual. Please go directly, and tell Mr. Greenholme.”
Margaret gave him a little push and put his hat in his hand and opened
the door. Even then he seemed scarcely to understand, but he passed out
mechanically, and Margaret saw that he went in the direction of Mr.
Greenholme’s house.
She herself turned to meet the dismayed faces of the other two
bridesmaids.
“Margaret, what is it?” asked Miss Whitwell. “Mr. Wythburn has just
rushed through the room saying that he was going to search the garden
for Mary. Is not Mary in the house?”
“No; she must have left the house last night, for she has not slept in
her bed. Hilda, your room was next Mary’s; did you hear her in the
night?”
“No. But Mary is a little peculiar. Perhaps she went for a walk, and
sprained her ankle or something. We had better go through the grounds. I
should not be surprised if she went over the hill to Rayford. It was a
magnificent night, and the moon made it almost like day; but if she
attempted to go across the rocks she might well meet with an accident.”
“Oh, but she never would! What is the use of saying such things?”
exclaimed Miss Whitwell, and immediately added, “Perhaps she is
somewhere near, and we shall find her.”
But Margaret felt sure that she would not be found, and, instead of
joining the others, she went to Mrs. Wythburn, who was still going into
one room after another, and peering into all sorts of unlikely places,
searching for her missing daughter and sobbing as if her heart would
break.
Presently in came Alfred Greenholme and his father, the former feeling
more disturbed than he had ever felt in his life before.
“What in the world is the matter?” he said. “Stapleton seems to have
taken leave of his senses. He was as incoherent as if he had been
drinking; but I understand him to say that Mary is missing.”
“Yes; he said what is true. Mary cannot be found.”
“Then there must have been foul play. Where were her jewels kept? Have
they been stolen?”
“No,” replied Margaret; “nothing seems to have been touched. All her
wedding presents are exactly as they were, and her jewels are in the
drawer in which they were always kept.”
“What am I to do?” asked Alfred. “Surely Mary will be here presently.
She will not get late for the wedding? She fixed the time herself.”
“I am so sorry for you,” said Hilda Copeland. “Mary must have been out
of her senses.”
“Did she seem so? Was she ill last night?” demanded Greenholme.
“She did not say so. She was very quiet, though.”
“Quiet!” repeated Alfred, forgetting to be courteous. “She was never
other than quiet. But such conduct is perfectly inexplicable. Are you
sure Mary is not in the house, Miss Miller?”
“Quite sure. We have looked everywhere.”
“Where is Stapleton? He might go and prevent the carriages from coming.
We do not want a row of them standing in front of the house for an
hour.”
“The servants will attend to that. There will be no wedding to-day,”
said Margaret.
“Do not say so. Mary may yet be in time. Is there no letter, or
something to explain where she is or what she has done?” demanded the
disappointed bridegroom.
“No; we can find nothing.”
“Then she will be forthcoming presently.”
But she was not; the searchers returned and looked at each other in
dismay.
The hours wore on. Mr. Greenholme thought the police should be
communicated with, but Mr. Wythburn was not willing.
“I cannot have detectives trying to track my daughter,” he said. “Mary
is not a child unable to take care of herself. We shall have a telegram
presently, or a letter from her in the morning.”
Alfred Greenholme said very little. But when Mrs. Wythburn came
tremblingly towards him, and kissed him, he said, “Do not be more
anxious than you can help. We both know Mary. Nothing dreadful can have
happened. We must wait. And let us keep our own counsel as much as we
can, and not set the whole town gossiping.”
But many friends of the family called during the day, and of course the
news spread rapidly. The vicar came, and his presence proved a great
comfort, for he said what commended itself to all. “Be sure that Mary is
in God’s keeping. No harm has come to her. For some reason or other Mary
has absented herself rather than be married. It is a very strange thing;
but we must not be too swift to blame her. She has really lived a very
independent life, you know, and she has simply acted for herself now. Do
you not think that is the explanation, Miss Miller?” And Margaret had
little doubt that it was.
The Greenholmes remained all day, for the trouble was one to be shared
between them. Alfred behaved very well; but he seemed to suffer more
annoyance than grief, and that is decidedly the more easy to bear.
And late in the afternoon a telegram came for Mr. Greenholme. It
contained only these words: “Do not be anxious. All is well. Mary.”
It wrought instantly a change in the feelings of the household; for
anger and vexation took the place of grief and anxiety. “It is too bad
of Mary,” everybody said; and hot words of blame were spoken freely.
Nobody took her part very courageously. Even Margaret admitted that her
friend had been, at the very least, guilty of great cowardice, while
Miss Copeland abused her in unmeasured terms; and only Tom Whitwell
pleaded that they would give her time to explain before they judged and
condemned her.
It had been arranged that Mr. Dallington should drive his cousin home.
He had come, as he thought, to the wedding, and seeing that there was to
be none, he thought they should leave early. Dr. Stapleton was to have
taken Miss Miller to Darentdale, but as he had not returned she accepted
Dallington’s invitation, and accompanied him and Miss Whitwell.
“I told you that I believed the wedding would not take place, did I not,
John?” asked the latter, as soon as they had started.
“Yes, you did, Tom; but I consider that your friend has disgraced her
womanhood in acting as she has done. If I were Greenholme I would never
forgive her.”
“I am sure she will never ask him,” said Tom. “But she has been a great
coward through it all.”
“She ought never to have allowed herself to be engaged to him,” said
Margaret; “but having done so she ought to have gone through with it.”
“And been miserable for ever after,” added Tom.
And then the clouds cleared away; for why should three healthy happy
young people be sad because one had been stupid?
Late in the evening Dr. Stapleton called at Mr. Wythburn’s to make
inquiries. He only stayed a few minutes; and when he left the vicar went
with him. They parted after ten minutes’ walk, and as they did so Mr.
Sherborne looked straight into the doctor’s eyes, and suddenly asked him
a question. “Stapleton, do you know where Miss Wythburn is?”
The doctor started violently, and the colour first came into his face,
and then left him pale.
“I? No, indeed!” he exclaimed. “I wish to God I did!”
“If you know anything at all you ought to tell her father.”
“What can I know?” stammered Stapleton.
But the vicar lifted his hat and walked away without another word.