afraid I shall never be able to manage the gussets. Only promise me that you’ll love me still, Launcelot. Tell me that you don’t hate me because I’m poor.”
The young man took the soft little hand that was laid with an imploring gesture on his wrist, and pressed it tenderly.
“I should be a brute if I wasn’t grateful for your love, Laura,” he said. “I didn’t wish you to be a rich woman. I’m not the sort of fellow who could contentedly accept a degraded position, and sponge upon a wife’s fortune. I only wanted—I only wanted my own,” he muttered with a savage accent; “I’m set upon and hemmed in on every side, and I’ve a hundred mortifications and miseries to bear for want of money. But I’ll try and make you a good husband, my dear.”
“You will, Launcelot,” cried the girl, melted by some touch of real earnestness in her lover’s tone that was new and welcome to her. “How good it is of you to say that. But how should you be otherwise than good; and you will be a great painter, and all the world will admire you and talk about you, and we shall be so happy,—shan’t we, Launcelot?—wandering through Italy together.”
The young man answered her with a bitter laugh.
“Yes, Laura,” he said, “the sooner we get to Italy the better. Heaven knows, I’ve no particular interest that need keep me in England, now.”
CHAPTER XXXVIII. MR. MONCKTON BRINGS GLOOMY TIDINGS FROM WOODLANDS.
For some few days after the Frenchman’s arrival, Launcelot Darrell stopped away from the Priory, much to the regret of his betrothed, whose delight in her trousseau was not sufficient to fill the blank made by her lover’s absence. Miss Mason roamed diconsolately about the house, looking out at the bare trees, and the desolate garden walks, and quoted Tennyson until she became obnoxious to her fellow-creatures by reason of her regret that he did not come, and her anxiety that the day should be done, and other lamentations to the same effect.
She ran out of doors sometimes under the bleak February sky, with a cambric handkerchief over her head, as a sensible protection from the bitter atmosphere, and her light ringlets flying in the wind, to stand at a little doorway in the high garden wall, and watch for her lover’s coming by a narrow pathway through the wood, which it was his wont to make a short cut for himself in dry weather.
She was standing in this narrow doorway upon the afternoon of the 22nd of February—only twenty-one days before that eventful morning which was to make her Launcelot Darrell’s wife—with Eleanor Monckton by her side. The short winter’s day was closing in, there at least in the low woodland, whatever light might linger on the hill-tops above Tolldale. The two women were silent: Eleanor was in very low spirits, for on this day she had lost her friend and counsellor, Richard Thornton, who had had no alternative but to leave Tolldale, or to forfeit a very remunerative and advantageous engagement at one of the Edinburgh theatres, whither he had been summoned to paint the scenery for a grand Easter burlesque, about to be produced with unusual splendour, by a speculative Scottish manager; and who had, therefore, departed, taking his aunt with him. George Vane’s daughter felt terribly helpless in the absence of this faithful ally. Richard had promised to attend to her summons, and to return to Tolldale at any hour, if she should have need of his services, but he was separated from her by a long distance, and how could she tell when the moment of that need might come. She was alone, amongst people who had no sympathy with the purpose of her life, and she bitterly felt the desolation of her position.
It was no very great wonder, then, if she was thoughtful and silent, and by no means the joyous, light-hearted companion whom Laura Mason had loved and clung to at Hazlewood, before the coming of Launcelot Darrell. This young lady watched her now, furtively, almost fearfully, wondering at the change in her, and speculating as to the cause of it.
“She must have been in love with Launcelot,” Laura thought; “how could she help being in love with him? And she married my guardian because he’s rich, and now she’s sorry for having done so. And she’s unhappy because I’m going to be married to Launcelot. And, oh! suppose Launcelot should still be in love with her; like the hero of a dreadful French novel!”
The dusky shadows were gathering thickly in the wood, when two figures emerged from the narrow pathway. A tall, slenderly-built young man, who switched the low brushwood and the fern with his light cane as he walked along, and a puffy little individual with a curly brimmed hat, who trotted briskly by his side.
Laura was not slow to recognise her lover even in that dusky light, and Eleanor knew that the young man’s companion was the French commercial traveller.
Mr. Darrell introduced his friend to the two ladies.
“Monsieur Victor Bourdon, Mrs. Monckton, Miss Mason,” he muttered hastily; “I daresay you have thought me very neglectful, Laura,” he added; “but I have been driving Monsieur Bourdon about the neighbourhood for the last day or two. He’s a stranger in this part of the country, though he’s almost as much an Englishman as I am.”
Monsieur Bourdon laughed as he acknowledged the compliment with an air that was evidently intended to be fascinating.
“Y-a-a-se,” he said, “we have been to Vindsor. It is very naice.”
Launcelot Darrell frowned, and looked angrily at his companion.
“Yes, Bourdon wanted to have a look at the state apartments,” he said; “he wanted to compare them with those interminable galleries at Versailles, I suppose, to the disparagement of our national glory.”
“But the apartments are closed,” said Eleanor.
“Oh! of course,” answered Mr. Darrell, looking at her rather suspiciously, “they always are closed when you happen to want to see them.