Part 69 (2/2)
Edward coloured up to the eyes. ”Who told you that, mother?” said he.
”Well, yes, I do love her, and I'm not ashamed of it. Doctor,” said the poor fellow after a while, ”I see now I am not quite the person to advise my mother in this matter. I consent to leave it in your hands.”
And in pursuance of this resolution, he retired to his study.
”There's a d.a.m.nable combination,” said Sampson drily. ”Truth is sairtainly more wonderful than f.e.c.ks.h.i.+n. Here's my fathom o' good sense in love with a wax doll, and her brother jilting his sister, and her father pillaging his mother. It _beats_ hotch-potch.”
Mrs. Dodd denied the wax doll: but owned Miss Hardie was open to vast objections: ”An inestimable young lady; but so odd; she is one of these uneasy-minded Christians that have sprung up: a religious egotist, and _malade imaginaire,_ eternally feeling her own spiritual pulse----”
”I know the disorrder,” cried Sampson eagerly: ”the pas.h.i.+nts have a hot fit (and then they are saints): followed in due course by the cold fit (and then they are the worst of sinners): and so on in endless rotation: and, if they could only realise my great discovery, the perriodicity of all disease, and time their sintiments, they would find the hot fit and the cold return chronometrically, at intervals as rigular as the tide's ebb and flow; and the soul has nothing to do with either febrile symptom. Why Religion, apart from intermittent Fever of the Brain, is just the caumest, peaceablest, sedatest thing in all the world.”
”Ah, you are too deep for me, my good friend. All I know is that she is one of this new school, whom I take the liberty to call 'THE FIDGETY CHRISTIANS.' They cannot let their poor souls alone a minute; and they pester one day and night with the millennium; as if we shall not all be dead long before that. But the worst is, they apply the language of earthly pa.s.sion to the Saviour of mankind, and make one's flesh creep at their blasphemies; so coa.r.s.e, so familiar: like that rude mult.i.tude which thronged and pressed Him when on earth. But, after all, she came to the church, and took my Julia's part; so that shows she has _principle;_ and do pray spare me her feelings in any step you take against that dishonourable person her father. I must go back to his victim, my poor, poor child--I dare not leave her long. Oh, Doctor, such a night! and, if she dozes for a minute, it is to wake with a scream and tell me she sees him dead: sometimes he is drowned; sometimes stained with blood, but always dead.”
This evening Mr. Hardie came along in a fly with his luggage on the box, returning to Musgrove Cottage as from Yorks.h.i.+re: in pa.s.sing Albion Villa he cast it a look of vindictive triumph. He got home and nodded by the fire in his character of a man wearied by a long journey. Jane made him some tea, and told him how Alfred had disappeared on his wedding-day.
”The young scamp,” said he; he added, coolly, ”It is no business of mine. I had no hand in making the match, thank Heaven.” In the conversation that ensued, he said he had always been averse to the marriage; but not so irreconcilably as to approve this open breach of faith with a respectable young lady. ”This will recoil upon our name, you know, at this critical time,” said he.
Then Jane mustered courage to confess that she had gone to the wedding herself: ”Dear papa,” said she, ”it was made clear to me that the Dodds are acting in what they consider a most friendly way to you. They think--I cannot tell you what they think. But, if mistaken, they are sincere: and so, after prayer, and you not being here for me to consult, I did go to the church. Forgive me, papa: I have but one brother; and she is my dear friend.”
Mr. Hardie's countenance fell at this announcement, and he looked almost diabolical. But on second thoughts he cleared up wonderfully: ”I will be frank with you, Jenny: if the wedding had come off; I should have been deeply hurt at your supporting that little monster of ingrat.i.tude. He not only marries against his father's will (that is done every day), but slanders and maligns him publicy in his hour of poverty and distress.
But now that he has broken faith and insulted Miss Dodd as well as me, I declare I am glad you were there, Jenny. It will separate us from his abominable conduct. But what does he say for himself? What reason does he give?”
”Oh, it is all mystery as yet.”
”Well, but he must have sent some explanation to the Dodds.”
”He may have: I don't know. I have not ventured to intrude on my poor insulted friend. Papa, I hear her distress is fearful; they fear for her reason. Oh, if harm comes to her, G.o.d will a.s.suredly punish him whose heartlessness and treachery has brought her to it. Mark my words,” she continued with great emotion, ”this cruel act will not go unpunished even in this world.”
”There, there, change the subject,” said Mr. Hardie peevishly. ”What have I to do with his pranks? He has disowned me for his father, and I disown him for my son.”
The next day Peggy Black called, and asked to see master. Old Betty, after the first surprise, looked at her from head to foot, and foot to head, as if measuring her for a suit of disdain; and told her she might carry her own message; then flounced into the kitchen, and left her to shut the street door, which she did. She went and dropped her curtsey at the parlour door, and in a miminy piminy voice said she was come to make her submission, and would he forgive her, and give her another trial?
Her penitence, after one or two convulsive efforts, ended in a very fair flow of tears.
Mr. Hardie shrugged his shoulders, and asked Jane if the girl had ever been saucy to her.
”Oh no, papa: indeed I have no fault to find with poor Peggy.”
”Well, then, go to your work, and try and not offend Betty; remember she is older than you.”
Peggy went for her box and bandbox, and reinstated herself quietly, and all old Betty's endeavours to irritate her only elicited a calm cunning smile, with a depression of her downy eyelashes.
_Albion Villa._
Next morning Edward Dodd was woke out of a sound sleep at about four o'clock, by a hand upon his shoulder: he looked up, and rubbed his eyes; it was Julia standing by his bedside, dressed, and in her bonnet.
”Edward,” she said in a hurried whisper, ”there is foul play: I cannot sleep, I cannot be idle. He has been decoyed away, and perhaps murdered.
Oh, pray get up and go to the police office or somewhere with me.”
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