hand dashed out the light almost before one could have discerned that a woman’s form had passed into the arbour.
Then words were spoken, and the first were of reproach, in an under tone—
“Thoughtless, selfish.”
“What, for lighting my poor little candle?” said a calm, clear voice, exceedingly gentle, almost caressing, but for that undercurrent of banter so hateful to woman, whether she be pleased or angry. “And you have dashed to pieces my poor little candle! How cruel in you!”
“Suppose it had been seen,” returned the female voice, remonstratingly.
“He would have thought it was the moon,
Rising to some sorcerer’s tune,
An hour too soon,”
recited the stranger, with very careful inflexion.
“I am here,” said his companion, in a cold voice. “Why are you here, and why have you asked me to come?”
“Pointedly put, but categorical answer is not always easy. However, I will do my best. When is this pleasant marriage?”
“That—that cannot concern you,” replied the other, in a troubled voice. “I do not know.”
“Your first statement is an error, my dear girl, and the second, pardon me, is a falsehood.”
“However much one is in your power, you might preserve the language of a gentleman,” replied the girl, with agitation.
“Why, when deceit, which is unworthy of a lady, is sought to be practised upon me? Why am I to be deprived of the happiness of knowing when my friends are to be made happy?”
“Your friends!”
“Actually said with a shudder—or is it the cold?—the night is chilly, and—”
It may have been that he attempted to approach her, and that as if by instinct she eluded him. She stood at the entrance of the arbour, with her hand upon one of the rough posts.
If there had been such an interruption to their talk, he took no notice of it, but asked—“Is Mr. Vernon in bed?”
“You know that my father never goes to his room until eleven.”
“I fancied I had heard that hour from the old church—waiting for you must have made the time seem long.”
“Once more, what brings you here?”
“Once more, when is the wedding?”
“I don’t know,” repeated the girl.
“Strange, that you should not, and that I should!”
“Then why ask?”
“Petulance, my love, within limits, is the most charming privilege of women, but when carried too far, we call it impertinence.”
This was said in the most benign way, and it was singular that it should have produced a passionate reply.
“I did not mean to be impertinent—pray forgive me—but I am ill—and it is very cold—I have no shawl—do not be angry, Ernest.”
“I am never angry, and least of all with you. Nor will I detain you long.”
“Please speak, and say what you wish. I am in such terror—”
“You need not be. No one ever came to harm for my sake.”
“Oh, my God!” was the response, given, it might be, involuntarily.
“A form of dissent from my proposition, I take it,” he replied; and a listener, if there were one, might well wonder of what the heart was made that could respond, with a sneer, to a sob. “I am sorry that we differ, but we will not quarrel, I think.”
“No, no, indeed,” said the agitated girl.
“Then let us speak of business. The bridal day is fixed, as I tell you, though you will not tell me so. I cannot allow the joyful occasion to pass without my making some present to the happy pair, giving some sign that I sympathise in their transports.”
“For mercy’s sake, do not stand and inflict torture.”
“Not for the world. I hoped to give pleasure, by showing my entire forgiveness of anything that might have seemed to be to my injury.”
“To yours!” said the girl in a low voice.
“Why, yes. Without affecting any profundity of feeling, with which I fear I should not be credited, can a man calmly resign the love of a lovely being, whose attachment to himself”—
“At any risk, I leave you—God help me!—if you speak so.”
“Stand there!” said the stranger in a hasty tone of command. “So—a moment’s thought, and you are rational. I had merely to say that I desire to make the bridal present I speak of. But, as the pupils of Mrs. Spagley are likely to know, the honour of being the writing-master at her distinguished establishment is more remarkable than the amount of his salary. I am sure you understand me.”
“You want us to give you more money. O Ernest, how are we to get it?”
“I would not insult the intellect of the Misses Vernon by supposing that what they have done before they cannot do again.”
“We have really none, and papa has none—what can we do?”
“I thought, pardon me, that Mr. Vernon usually received certain moneys about the 24th. This is the 26th, a point on which I would not dwell, but that yesterday I perceived the postman came towards Bolk’s Hill with a registered letter.”
“But that is wanted for—for marriage arrangements,” said the poor girl. “I cannot talk to you on such things, and you ought not to make me—I mean that—”
“Never mind. I comprehend, and a bride would not willingly be thought a beggar.”
“Ernest!” sobbed the girl.
“But I might remind you that, on the eve of a marriage, hearts and purses are open, and a bride has such advantages when she asks a little assistance from friends.”
She was silent. Perhaps prostrated in presence of his cruelty and meanness.—Yet do not read a woman’s heart too fast, or you may read it very wrongly. He, at all events, did not choose so to interpret her.
