The Parson O' Dumford

“It’s only me, Miss Eve. I wanted just a word.”

“Why – why did you not come to the house?” she faltered,

“Don’t be scarred, miss. I only wanted to be sure o’ seeing you alone. I just want to ask you something.”

“Yes,” she said, composing herself.

“I want to ask you to forgive me, miss, if I hurt your feelings, and do something as’ll make you feel bitter again me.”

“You would not hurt me, Tom?” said Eve, rising and laying her hand upon his arm.

“God knows I wouldn’t, miss, any more than I would one of His angels,” said the young fellow, excitedly; “and that’s why I’ve come. I couldn’t feel as it weer raight not to come, and even though you may think it spiteful, it isn’t, but on’y for your sake alone.”

“Yes,” said Eve, who felt giddy. “You have something dreadful to tell me.”

“No, Miss,” said the young man, solemnly, “not to tell you, only a note to gi’e you.”

“A note – from Mr Selwood?”

“No, miss,” said Tom, not seeing the warm flush in the girl’s face, “a note as weer sent last night to my Daisy, and which she give to me an hour ago.”

“A note?” faltered Eve, again.

“Yes, miss, a note. Daisy talked it ower wi’ me, and I said as you ought to see it; and even if it hurts you sore, I felt I must gi’e it to you, and theer it is.”

Eve felt the paper, and was aware of the fact that her visitor had scrambled over the wall, and was gone, and still she stood clutching the paper tightly, till a voice made her start, and thrust the paper into her bosom.

“Eve, my child, it is damp and late.”

It was Mrs Glaire calling, and, picking up her presents, Eve slowly went up the garden, feeling like one in a dream, till she entered through the open window, where Mrs Glaire was waiting.

“Why, you are quite cold, my child,” said Mrs Glaire, tenderly, as she closed the windows, and led the trembling girl to an easy chair by the tea-table, the shaded lamp shedding a pleasant glow upon the steaming urn.

“It is getting cold, aunt,” said Eve, with a shiver; and she drank the tea poured ready for her with avidity.

“More presents, my darling?” said Mrs Glaire, leaning over and kissing her. “Eve, child, you are making me very happy.”

Eve’s arms were flung round her neck, and she sobbed there in silence for a few moments.

“Don’t cry, my darling; try and think it is for the best. It is – you know it is, and the past must all be forgotten. But where is Dick? He must be buying presents, or arranging something, or he would be here,” she said, cheerfully. “By the way, Eve, what are those? Did Richard send them?”

“No, aunt,” said Eve, hoarsely; “they are from Mr Selwood.”

“Always a kind, good friend,” said Mrs Glaire, whose voice shook a little as she looked at the gifts. “Make Richard think better of him, Eve, for he is a true, good friend.”

Eve did not answer, for her hand was upon her breast, and beneath that hand she could feel the paper. Her great dread was that Richard should come back, and she prayed that he might not return.

Ten o’clock sounded, and then eleven, from the little pendule on the chimney-piece, and still he did not come; and Mrs Glaire, noticing the poor girl’s agitation, proposed rest.

“I will sit up for Dick, Eve,” she said, cheerfully. “He is preparing some surprise;” but, as soon as her niece had kissed her lovingly, and left the room, a haggard look came over the mother’s countenance, and she knelt down for a few moments beside the couch.

She started up, though, for she heard her son’s step in the hall, and he entered directly, looking hot and flushed.

“Where’s Evey?” he asked.

“Gone to bed, my boy,” replied Mrs Glaire. “Dick, you should have stayed at home to-night.”

“Oh, all right,” he said, lightly, and with a bitter sneer; “it’s the last night, and I thought I might have a run.”

“I’m not blaming you, dear,” said Mrs Glaire, kissing his forehead; “only poor Eve looked so sad and ill to-night.”

Had she seen her then, she would have cried out in fear, for, with an open paper in her hand, Eve was pacing up and down her room, to throw herself at last upon her knees in agony, and after many hours sob herself to sleep.

Volume Three – Chapter Seventeen.

The Happy Day

It was gala day in Dumford. The past bitter times were forgotten, and the men had rigged up an arch of evergreens. The children were in their best, and gardens had been stripped of their flowers. Half the town had been twice to the Bull to see the barouche and the four greys that had been ordered from Ranby, and the postboys, in their white beaver hats, had been asked to drink more times than was safe for those they had to drive.

The church, too, was decorated with flowers from the vicarage garden, and new gravel laid down from porch to gate. The ringers were there, and the singers, and the musicians making their way to the loft, while the various pews and sittings were filled to a degree “not knowed,” Jacky Budd said, “for years an’ years.”

The school children were ready, armed with baskets of flowers, and had been well tutored by the school-mistress to throw them as the bride and bridegroom came out. This lady sighed as she saw the preparations, and told Jacky Budd to open more windows, because the bodies smelt so bad, and Jacky said they did, and it gave him quite a sinking: but the hint was not taken.

In the vicarage Murray Selwood sat looking pale and stern, beside his untasted breakfast, and it was not till, with affectionate earnestness and the tears in her eyes, Mrs Slee had begged him to take a cup of tea, that he had yielded, and eaten also a slice of toast.

“I know thou’rt ill, sir,” she said. “Let me send for Mr Purley.”

“No, no, Mrs Slee,” he said, shaking off his air of gloom; “only a fit of low spirits. I shall be better soon.”

Mrs Slee shook her head as she went back to the kitchen.

“He wean’t: he’s been getting worse for weeks and weeks, and it makes me wretched to see him look so wankle.”

Meanwhile at the House all was excitement. Eve had risen at daybreak to sit and watch the rising sun and ask herself what she should do. She had promised to be Richard’s wife. Her aunt’s happiness, perhaps her life, depended upon it, and it was to save her cousin. She was to redeem him, offering herself as a sacrifice to bring him back to better ways, to make him a good and faithful husband, and yet in her bosom lay those damning lines, telling of his infidelity in spirit – of his passion for another, and again and again she wailed —

“He never loved me, and he never will.”

Should she go – could she fly somewhere far away, where she might work and gain her own living, anywhere, in any humble station, in peace?

And Richard – her aunt?

No, no, it was impossible; and think how she would, the bitter feeling came back to her that she had promised her aunt, and she must keep her word.

And besides, if Richard was like this now, what would he be if she refused him at this eleventh hour, and cast him off. She shuddered at the thought, and at last grew calmer and more resigned.

In this way the hours passed on, till in a quiet mechanical manner she was dressed by the maid, who was enthusiastic in her praises of dress, jewels, flowers, everything.

Mrs Glaire was very pale, but bright and active, and in a supercilious, half-sneering way, Richard watched till all was ready, and the guests who had been invited had arrived.