Christians Mistake | Page 7

nursery, now made into a bedroom, and tenanted by herself and the two little Fergusons. No special sanctity of appropriation had it; a large, somewhat bare room, in which not a thing was her own, either to miss or leave behind. For, in truth, she had nothing of her own; the small personalities which she had contrived to drag about with her from lodging to lodging having all gone to pay debts, which she had insisted --and Dr. Grey agreed--ought to be paid before she was married. So he had taken from her the desk, the work-table, and the other valueless yet well-prized feminine trifles, and brought her, as their equivalent, a sum large enough to pay both these debts and all her marriage expenses, which sum she, ignorant and unsuspicious, took gratefully, merely saying "he was very kind."
She now looked round on her sole worldly possessions--the large trunk which contained her ordinary apparel, and the smaller one, in which were packed all she needed for her fortnight's marriage tour. Her traveling dress lay on the bed--a plain dark silk--her only silk gown except the marriage one. She let Mrs. Ferguson array her in it, and then, with her usual mechanical orderliness, began folding up the shining white draperies and laying them in the larger trunk.
"Shall I send that direct to the Lodge, my dear?"
Christian looked up absently.
"To Saint Bede's Lodge--you know--that it may be ready for you when you come home?"
Home--that blessed word which should send a thrill to the heart of any bride. Alas! this bride heard it quite unheeding, saying only, "Do what you think best, Mrs. Ferguson."
And then she proceeded to fasten her collar and complete the minutiae of her dress with that careful neatness which was an instinct with Christian, as it is with all womanly women, though how this poor motherless girl had ever learned womanliness at all was a marvel. She answered chiefly in soft monosyllables to the perpetual stream of Mrs. Ferguson's talk, till at last the good soul could no longer restrain herself.
"Oh, my dear, if you would only speak--only let out your feelings a little; for you must feel this day so; I'm sure I do, just as if it were my own wedding day, or Isabella's, or Sarah Jane's. And when they do come to be married, poor lambs! I hope it will be as good a match as you are making--only, perhaps, not a widower. But I beg your pardon. Oh, Miss Oakley, my dear, we shall miss you so!"
And the good woman, who had a heart--and hearts are worth something--clasped the orphan-bride to her broad bosom, and shed over her a torrent of honest tears.
"Thank you," Christian said, and returned the kiss gently, but no tears came to her eyes.
"And now," added Mrs. Ferguson, recovering herself, "I'll go and see that every thing is right; and I'll get my warm tartan shawl for you to travel in. It is a terrible snowy day still. You'll come down stairs presently?"
"Yes."
But the instant Mrs. Ferguson was gone Christian locked the door. The same look, of more than pain--actual fear--crossed her face. She stood motionless, as if trying to collect herself, and then, with her hands all shaking, took from her traveling-trunk a sealed packet. For a second she seemed irresolute, and only a second.
"It must be done--it is right. I ought to have done it before--Good-by forever."
Good-by to what--or to whom?
All that the fire revealed, as she laid the packet on it, stirring it down into a red hollow, so that not a flickering fragment should be left unconsumed, were four letters--only four--written on dainty paper, in a man's hand, sealed with a man's large heraldic seal. When they were mere dust, Christian rose.
"It is over now--quite over. In the whole world there is nobody to believe in--except him. He is very good, and he loves me. I was right to marry him--yes, quite right."
She repeated this more than once, as if compelling herself to acknowledge it, and then paused.
Christian was not exactly a religious woman--that is, she had lived among such utterly irreligious people, that whatever she thought or felt upon these subjects had to be kept entirely to herself--but she was of a religious nature. She said her prayers duly, and she had one habit--or superstition, some might sneeringly call it--that the last thing before she went on a journey she always opened her Bible; read a verse or two, and knelt down, if only to say, "God, take care of me, and bring me safe back again;" petitions that in many a wretched compelled wandering were not so uncalled for as some might suppose. Before this momentous journey she did the same; but, instead of a Bible, it happened to be the children's Prayer-Book which she