A Group of Noble Dames | Page 7

from Evershead, gravely.
He was only called in at the Court for small ailments, as a rule, and felt
the importance of the situation. He lifted the Squire's head, loosened his
cravat and clothing, and rang for the servants, who took the Squire
upstairs.
There he lay as if in a drugged sleep. The surgeon drew a basin- full of
blood from him, but it was nearly six o'clock before he came to himself.
The dinner was completely disorganized, and some had gone home
long ago; but two or three remained.
'Bless my soul,' Baxby kept repeating, 'I didn't know things had come
to this pass between Dornell and his lady! I thought the feast he was
spreading to-day was in honour of the event, though privately kept for
the present! His little maid married without his knowledge!'
As soon as the Squire recovered consciousness he gasped: ''Tis
abduction! 'Tis a capital felony! He can be hung! Where is Baxby? I am
very well now. What items have ye heard, Baxby?'
The bearer of the untoward news was extremely unwilling to agitate
Dornell further, and would say little more at first. But an hour after,
when the Squire had partially recovered and was sitting up, Baxby told
as much as he knew, the most important particular being that Betty's
mother was present at the marriage, and showed every mark of
approval. 'Everything appeared to have been done so regularly that I, of
course, thought you knew all about it,' he said.
'I knew no more than the underground dead that such a step was in the
wind! A child not yet thirteen! How Sue hath outwitted me! Did
Reynard go up to Lon'on with 'em, d'ye know?'
'I can't say. All I know is that your lady and daughter were walking
along the street, with the footman behind 'em; that they entered a
jeweller's shop, where Reynard was standing; and that there, in the
presence o' the shopkeeper and your man, who was called in on
purpose, your Betty said to Reynard--so the story goes: 'pon my soul I

don't vouch for the truth of it--she said, "Will you marry me?" or, "I
want to marry you: will you have me--now or never?" she said.'
'What she said means nothing,' murmured the Squire, with wet eyes.
'Her mother put the words into her mouth to avoid the serious
consequences that would attach to any suspicion of force. The words be
not the child's: she didn't dream of marriage--how should she, poor
little maid! Go on.'
'Well, be that as it will, they were all agreed apparently. They bought
the ring on the spot, and the marriage took place at the nearest church
within half-an-hour.'
A day or two later there came a letter from Mrs. Dornell to her husband,
written before she knew of his stroke. She related the circumstances of
the marriage in the gentlest manner, and gave cogent reasons and
excuses for consenting to the premature union, which was now an
accomplished fact indeed. She had no idea, till sudden pressure was put
upon her, that the contract was expected to be carried out so soon, but
being taken half unawares, she had consented, having learned that
Stephen Reynard, now their son-in- law, was becoming a great
favourite at Court, and that he would in all likelihood have a title
granted him before long. No harm could come to their dear daughter by
this early marriage-contract, seeing that her life would be continued
under their own eyes, exactly as before, for some years. In fine, she had
felt that no other such fair opportunity for a good marriage with a
shrewd courtier and wise man of the world, who was at the same time
noted for his excellent personal qualities, was within the range of
probability, owing to the rusticated lives they led at King's-Hintock.
Hence she had yielded to Stephen's solicitation, and hoped her husband
would forgive her. She wrote, in short, like a woman who, having had
her way as to the deed, is prepared to make any concession as to words
and subsequent behaviour.
All this Dornell took at its true value, or rather, perhaps, at less than its
true value. As his life depended upon his not getting into a passion, he
controlled his perturbed emotions as well as he was able, going about
the house sadly and utterly unlike his former self. He took every

precaution to prevent his wife knowing of the incidents of his sudden
illness, from a sense of shame at having a heart so tender; a ridiculous
quality, no doubt, in her eyes, now that she had become so imbued with
town ideas. But rumours of his seizure somehow reached her, and she
let him know that she was about to