Part 141 (2/2)
”Ha, ha!” laughed John, chucking his prim wife under the chin, ”you did not say that to me when I stole your first kiss under that very pollard-tree--no house near it then!”
”Hush, John, hus.h.!.+” and the prim wife blushed like a girl.
”Pooh,” continued John, merrily, ”I don't see why we plain folk should pretend to be more saintly and prudish-like than our betters. There's that handsome Miss Leslie, who is to marry Mr. Egerton--easy enough to see how much she is in love with him,--could not keep her eyes off from him even in church, old girl! Ha, ha! What the deuce is the matter with the ravens?”
”They'll be a comely couple, John. And I hear tell she has a power of money. When is the marriage to be?”
”Oh, they say as soon as the election is over. A fine wedding we shall have of it! I dare say my young Lord will be bridesman. We'll send for our little Nora to see the gay doings!”
Out from the boughs of the old tree came the shriek of a lost spirit,--one of those strange, appalling sounds of human agony which, once heard, are never forgotten. It is as the wail of Hope, when SHE, too, rushes forth from the Coffer of Woes, and vanishes into viewless s.p.a.ce; it is the dread cry of Reason parting from clay, and of Soul, that would wrench itself from life! For a moment all was still--and then a dull, dumb, heavy fall!
The parents gazed on each other, speechless: they stole close to the pales, and looked over. Under the boughs, at the gnarled roots of the oak, they saw--gray and indistinct--a prostrate form. John opened the gate, and went round; the mother crept to the road-side, and there stood still.
”Oh, wife, wife!” cried John Avenel, from under the green boughs, ”it is our child Nora! Our child! our child!”
And, as he spoke, out from the green boughs started the dark ravens, wheeling round and round, and calling to their young!
And when they had laid her on the bed, Mrs. Avenel whispered John to withdraw for a moment; and with set lips but trembling hands began to unlace the dress, under the pressure of which Nora's heart heaved convulsively. And John went out of the room bewildered, and sat himself down on the landing-place, and wondered whether he was awake or sleeping; and a cold numbness crept over one side of him, and his head felt very heavy, with a loud, booming noise in his ears. Suddenly his wife stood by his side, and said, in a very low voice,
”John, run for Mr. Morgan,--make haste. But mind--don't speak to any one on the way. Quick, quick!”
”Is she dying?”
”I don't know. Why not die before?” said Mrs. Avenel, between her teeth; ”but Mr. Morgan is a discreet, friendly man.”
”A true Blue!” muttered poor John, as if his mind wandered; and rising with difficulty, he stared at his wife a moment, shook his head, and was gone.
An hour or two later, a little, covered, taxed cart stopped at Mr.
Avenel's cottage, out of which stepped a young man with pale face and spare form, dressed in the Sunday suit of a rustic craftsman; then a homely, but pleasant, honest face bent down to him, smilingly; and two arms emerging from under covert of a red cloak extended an infant, which the young man took tenderly. The baby was cross and very sickly; it began to cry. The father hushed, and rocked, and tossed it, with the air of one to whom such a charge was familiar.
”He'll be good when we get in, Mark,” said the young woman, as she extracted from the depths of the cart a large basket containing poultry and home-made bread.
”Don't forget the flowers that the squire's gardener gave us,” said Mark the Poet.
Without aid from her husband, the wife took down basket and nosegay, settled her cloak, smoothed her gown, and said, ”Very odd! they don't seem to expect us, Mark. How still the house is! Go and knock; they can't ha' gone to bed yet.”
Mark knocked at the door--no answer. A light pa.s.sed rapidly across the windows on the upper floor, but still no one came to his summons. Mark knocked again. A gentleman dressed in clerical costume, now coming from Lansinere Park, on the opposite side of the road, paused at the sound of Mark's second and more impatient knock, and said civilly,
”Are you not the young folks my friend John Avenel told me this morning he expected to visit him?”
”Yes, please, Mr. Dale,” said Mrs. Fairfield, dropping her courtesy.
”You remember me! and this is my dear good man!”
”What! Mark the Poet?” said the curate of Lansmere, with a smile. ”Come to write squibs for the election?”
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