# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 7/A dream of love - Part 2

←Part 1
A DREAM OF LOVE. A STORY IN TWO PARTS.
PART II.
“My great-niece, Amyce Cloyse—Mr. Hedworth Charlton.”
The introduction was made in my uncle’s quavering voice, when I shyly stole into the drawing-room before dinner the following day, and slightly bending in answer to the stranger’s inclination, I crept into a seat close to Sir John’s elbow.
Only those who like myself have been brought up in perfect seclusion, know the intense pain and awkwardness of such a moment to a young girl who has no lady friend to support her. I dared not raise my eyes; I felt my elbows and shoulders everywhere but in their proper positions, my cheeks burning, my whole appearance twice as ungainly as it usually was; and worse still, I knew from that ominous way in which Uncle John was clearing his throat that he was displeased with my awkwardness, and wished to give me a hint to retrieve my character. It was in vain that Mr. Charlton tried to cover my confusion, by continuing the conversation in which he had been engaged, previous to my entrance. Uncle John seemed to have a malicious desire to bring me forward, to make me speak, act, show off—in short, to prove me to be a person of consideration; and he could not conceal his annoyance when, at every attempt, I grew more and more awkward, stammering, hesitating, answering at random.
Dinner was announced. My uncle desired Mr. Charlton to hand me in, and I rose mechanically, and accepted his proffered arm, noticing then, for the first time, how tall was my new acquaintance. The meal was very lengthy and very stiff. Mr. Charlton’s efforts to make conversation gradually flagged as my shyness overpowered me, and my ​uncle’s politeness and self-command gave way before the irritation induced by my manifold misdemeanours.
Alas! Uncle John made no excuse for me. He forgot how ignorant I was of the world, how unused to company, and he was seriously disappointed and annoyed because I did not come out of my eggshell a fashionable, prepossessing young lady, well versed in my part as hostess: charming, affable, ready in conversation—in fine, the fascinating person whom he had recommended to my notice yesterday.
We had an old-fashioned dinner, and soup and fish being removed, I saw, to my horror, that a couple of spring chickens were being placed before me. Mr. Charlton offered to carve them, and though longing to accept his aid, some impulse of mauvaise honte prompted me to say no, instead of yes, and precipitately to commence hacking the breast of the nearest fowl in the vain hope of discovering the wing point.
Mr. Charlton had said he would take chicken; a servant was holding a plate at my side, and from the opposite end of the table I caught sight of my uncle’s beady, black eyes watching every movement. I had no knowledge of carving, but I dared not avow my ignorance, and shyness increasing my awkwardness a hundredfold, I went on labouring hopelessly for some minutes, crimson to my hair roots, and with such a haze before my eyes that I could scarcely see.
Then came a loud explosion of wrath from the other end of the table. Uncle John had caught sight of the macerated morsels which I was endeavouring to convey in safety to the plate, and he stormed frantically. My hands fell nervelessly at my side, and the room seemed to swim round—oh, how I wished that the ground could have opened and swallowed me up!
But the next minute a goodhumoured voice beside me said “Allow me!” and Stephen had promptly moved the dish before Mr. Charlton, who was dexterously separating the joints. I could not even say thank you, for I was ashamed to look up and let him see that I had tears in my eyes. I began crumbling my roll, and endeavouring to swallow some drops of water, and happily a well-directed question from Mr. Charlton checked my uncle’s wrathful tirade.
Dinner progressed; nobody spoke to me. I think Mr. Charlton wished to give me time to recover myself, and my uncle was too angry to appeal to me.
At length the dessert was set on the table, and I consoled myself with the hope of an early release. But I had counted without my host, I had overrated my own powers; over and over again I endeavoured to rise, and yet sat still defeated; over and over again I waited for a lull in the conversation, flushed like a peony at the mere thought of my own audacity—there; until at length my uncle gave me an unmistakeable hint when I got up, awkwardly dropped my handkerchief, had to wait till Mr. Charlton stooped under the table to recover it for me, forgot to thank him, and finally stumbled out of the room like one pursued by an enemy.
No wonder I provoked my poor uncle; no wonder if Mr. Charlton thought me a baby, or worse than that, for children have a natural grace, and my awkwardness made me graceless.
But the evening was more hopeful. The gentlemen made their appearance early; Mr. Charlton coming at once to the little table where I sat at work, and beginning to speak to me so naturally about books and things, that I speedily forgot my fear of him, and grew interested. When a rapid glance towards my uncle’s chair and closed eyes reassured me, I even ventured on a few remarks of my own, and found myself emboldened to look upon my companion’s face.
He was an older looking man than I had expected to find him; he could not be less than thirty, and his face had a few furrows, and his hair some grey threads which might have added even more years to his age. But he was handsome for all that. His features were firm; rather solid, perhaps, when they were not lighted up by that rare, beaming smile which sparkled even to his eyes and teeth. Before the end of the evening I began to like him very much; he was so amusing, so good-natured; if it had not been for once or twice detecting a stealthy opening and shutting of Uncle John’s eyes, which proved that he was sleeping with wide-awake ears, I think I should have thoroughly enjoyed myself.
But by the next morning I had time to freeze, and breakfast was but a modified repetition of yesterday’s dinner. However, all came right again during the morning, which we spent together in the drawing-room. I had said I did not know Tennyson’s “Idylls of the King,” and Mr. Charlton read some passages from it aloud to me as I sat working. Uncle John did not make his appearance, and I had supposed he was not coming down before luncheon, until an unexpected sound in the library startled me, and suddenly revealed his presence.
The door between the two rooms was ajar, and I rapidly reviewed my last half hour’s conversation with Mr. Charlton, and hoped that none of my remarks had been scandalous or unorthodox. How hot I felt for a minute. Mr. Charlton had been reading Enid to me, and we had been speaking of love in the abstract—oh, dear, I hoped it was not an improper subject.
“My companion had not detected my uncle’s vicinity, and I dared not enlighten him. I sat on thorns; my conversation lost its spirit; I asserted no more opinions, and presently he surmised that I was tired of his reading, and shut up the book. And I felt disappointed. I don’t know why.
A minute later, Stephen stood at the door:
“Master wished to speak to Miss Cloyse.”
I rose precipitately. I was going to be reprimanded. Could I deserve it, had I said or done anything that was forward or improper in a young lady? I knew people had to be very particular, and I was so dreadfully ignorant.
But no reprimand was in store for me this time. Uncle John stood by the library door, looking very nervous and uncomfortable, but his discomfort had no connection with me. He wanted to go back to his room, and there was that new housemaid with the great crinoline dusting it out, and he dared not return while she was there; she ​always apologised to him, and he couldn’t bear being spoken to; and, besides, he never could get past her voluminous skirts in the doorway—so would I go and send her out, before he went up-stairs?
I ran off on the errand, greatly relieved, dispatched Jane to another part of the house, and myself tidied the things on Uncle John’s particular table. He came up as I was thus busied, and smilingly said, he must not keep me from my visitor. Instead of being angry with me this morning, he appeared to be in a singularly good humour, and I thought I had a favourable opportunity for consulting him as to whether it would be proper for me to go out riding with Mr. Charlton in the afternoon. Mr. Charlton had said something about wishing me to show him the country.
“Improper.” Uncle John was very near storming at the word. “Why was I to think things were improper. No, of course it was right, he would take care it was right. I was to make myself agreeable to my guest, and leave him to regulate the proprieties.” I heard him muttering to himself as he moved away: “Improper, I wonder who has put that crotchet into the girl’s head!”
Well, we had the ride, and another still more pleasant on Saturday afternoon. I speedily recovered from my shyness, and made great friends with my companion. My uncle being so much of an invalid, we were unavoidably thrown on one another’s society, and he seemed somewhat to be amused by my honestly avowed ignorance of things and people, and glad to enlighten it. He conversed with me, he read with me, he drew me out, encouraged me, gave me manifold useful hints, and all in a brotherly sort of way, that set me indescribably at my ease. So we came to the Sunday, the day before that on which he was to return to London.
In the morning he and I went to the village church. Mr. Carmichael read the prayers. Mr. Charlton did not hesitate to draw back the red curtain which enveloped our pew, thus revealing to view a bevy of very pretty girls in the opposite seat. There, handsomest and foremost of all, was Rose Carmichael, her complexion like roses and lilies, her splendid dark eyes half asleep under their drooping lashes. She was a very beautiful girl, and wear what she would, she invariably appeared well-dressed.
That morning—how well I remember it—she had on a little white tulle bonnet, with pink roses in the cap, and her wavy brown hair, which the wind had disordered, was arranged in the most picturesque confusion about her face and neck, one long, silky curl falling down the front of her muslin mantle, and perpetually getting into her way, and requiring to be tossed aside by a plump white hand, the palm of which had a glow of shell-pink.
She sang. I had never heard her sing so loud or so well before. She did not look up at our pew, but she chose a seat directly fronting it, and sat there looking a perfect picture, her chin resting on her hand, and her eyes upraised to the pulpit, with the soft, earnest expression of a Madonna.
I saw Mr. Charlton watching her, and I felt proud and pleased,—he was admiring my friend!
After service Rose Carmichael waited for me in the porch. A child was ill in the village, and she wanted me to ask Mrs. Butterworth to send him some arrowroot.
It was the first time in her life Rose had ever so waited for me, or preferred such a request; but she did it so lovingly with respect to me, so thoughtfully with respect to the sick child, that she was irresistible. Mr. Charlton’s face showed that he shared my admiration, and I was just beginning to reflect shyly that it might be proper to introduce the one to the other, when Rose herself took the initiative, and addressed to him some trifling remark about the weather, which opened the way to conversation. Presently, we reached the rectory gate, but Rose passed it, saying she should be glad of a little fresh air, after her long morning in school and church, and that she would accompany us part of the way home. And she did so, the longer part, and the remainder of our walk was taken up in talking of her. Mr. Charlton asked many questions about her family, and admired her openly, and for the first time I had a jealous misgiving.
When we came home, and joined my uncle at luncheon we avoided the topic. I never liked to mention Rose Carmichael at the Towers, and Mr. Charlton had forgotten her by this time, perhaps.
In the afternoon, the sky was threatening, and my uncle would not hear of my going to church a second time, so, at the last moment, Mr. Charlton started alone. There was a terrific thunderstorm later in the day, vivid flashes of lightning and heavy clouds clashing overhead. I grew uneasy as the time past, and watched anxiously from my window. Mr. Charlton did not make his appearance till nearly dinner-time, and then I hastened down to meet him. But he quite smiled to think I had been apprehensive on his account; he had been sitting most comfortably in the Rectory for the last hour and a half. The storm had been at its height at the close of the service, and Miss Carmichael had very kindly invited him to take shelter.
“It was so odd,” he said, but he had found out that the rector was brother to that old Carmichael of Caius, who used to “coach” him years ago. And as he was going to Cambridge shortly, he had volunteered to take a parcel for his old friend; he was to call for it on his way to the station to-morrow morning. I suppose he did so. He started from the Towers a full hour before the train-time, and I ran up to the garret-window, and watched the dog-cart which conveyed him, driving down the avenue till the turn by the lodge-gates hid it from view, and then went back to the drawing-room with a very heavy heart, and spent all the morning in making an elaborate cover for the copy of the “Idylls of the King,” which he had left behind him, with my name written in the title-page.
How long and lonely seemed the weeks that followed. My happiest times, now-a-days, were those evening hours when my uncle and I, sitting together, often spoke of our late visitor, and invariably hunted the papers to see if his name was ​mentioned in any party question. Once or twice, when his speeches were recorded, how eagerly I read them, how hot I grew upon politics, blindly adopting his views; hating one paper, because it abused him, lauding another to the skies, because it pronounced him an able man. Well, such is life, woman’s life at least; her reason invariably takes its colour from her heart!
One morning, post-time brought to me untold happiness. There was a short note in Mr. Charlton’s handwriting, proffering his company at the Towers for a few days during the following week, if convenient to myself and uncle. Convenient to me? it was delightful, and I went about the house all that morning singing like a lark!—to my uncle?—I suppose so, for his lips relaxed with a rare smile, and he drew me to his heart, and kissed me again and again.
This time we made more preparations for our visitor; I had a box of handsome new dresses down from my London dressmaker, and I did my hair in a new way that was twice as becoming. I could not restrain my happiness, and surely both Uncle John and old Butterworth encouraged me in it. I met Rose Carmichael one day in the grounds, and told her who was coming, but she made me no answer; she was busy pulling to pieces the sprig of scarlet geranium which I had given her not five minutes before.
The day came, the hour, Hedworth Charlton himself—delighted to be back with us, in the highest spirits, thoroughly cordial in his greetings to me,—and I was in Paradise!
He had taken up very warm views on the subject of education since his former visit, and all through the evening he spoke of little else. He was an earnest, zealous, good man, interested in every charitable scheme, and he seemed to me to take great pains to interest me in the like. Perhaps I was not a very dull pupil when he taught!
He made endless inquiries about our parish and schools, expressed surprise and regret when I could tell him so little about them, proposed that we should walk over to the village the next morning, and I willingly acceded to his wish.
It may be that I should not have acquiesced so readily, had I foreseen that Rose Carmichael would be our escort to the schools and cottages. She knew everything, and for all the information he required, Hedworth Charlton appealed to her. She constantly taught the children—was well acquainted with the parents. I did neither—nothing, and I felt myself thrown into the shade, and walked silently behind, whilst Mr. Charlton and Rose were so eagerly discussing improvements.
I came home with a heavy heart. Hedworth Charlton had alluded to my useless life, almost with reproach, and I was burning with jealousy because he made so much of Rose Carmichael’s puny efforts. I was beside myself. I could not rest content to be thus set aside. I determined to rival her—to out-do her. I went to my poor old uncle, and startled him with a highly-coloured picture of the ill-ventilated school-room; I begged him, excitedly, to have them re-built on a more extensive scale—the parish needed it, I said, and it was the Squire’s duty.
He heard me—smiled, asked if Hedworth Charlton thought so, too; then fondly added, that his fortune was his little Amyce’s to do with as she willed, and he bade me go and consult Hedworth Charlton about the necessary arrangements.
“I was delighted, for Hedworth Charlton was gratified and warmly applauded me—delighted, I meant for a moment, when he said that he would take Rose Carmichael into our council to-morrow, I drew back mortified and displeased. Henceforward it was more Rose’s scheme than mine; she had so much more sense and judgment than I had that she improved my every suggestion. The plans were drawn out, and she and Hedworth Charlton corrected them while I looked on. Oh, me, what it is to be jealous!
Again Hedworth Charlton went away; and this time my uncle parted from him with less cordiality, and was very cross all the day after he left, and I was very miserable.
But he had wanted some rare autumnal flower for his collection of dried plants. I had promised to get it, and send it after him. Rose knew the spot where the plant grew, and she volunteered to show me where it was. We went together, secured a favourable specimen, and Hedworth Charlton wrote back cordial thanks to me, sending, at the same time, a grateful message to Miss Carmichael for the trouble she had taken in his behalf, and saying something about valuing that flower all his life, whereat my heart beat.
Uncle John read the letter, frowned over the allusion to Rose, smiled at the succeeding sentence; but I think he must have had some after-misgiving, which he mentioned to Butterworth; for she came to me that night, at bed-time, and warned me against “yon forward hussy, Rose Carmichael, who made such a palaver about her goodness, when there was none that thought much of it;—wasn’t she one of them sort that’s just bells calling other folks to church, and never gangs in theirsel?” She concluded by a trite saying that puzzled me; it was something about pretty women and pinkt gowns being allus a catching on tenter hooks.
Time wore on. Beyond reading in the papers of Mr. Hedworth Charlton’s sayings and doings we knew nothing of his further proceedings. My uncle gradually gave over talking about him, and began to sneer when I did so, and those sneers went to my heart like arrows.
The building of the new school-houses was commenced, and their progress formed my one source of interest. Not an unclouded one though, for Rose Carmichael over-ruled me even in this matter, and so successfully too, that I found I could not get on without her assistance, and having on one occasion chosen to quarrel with her about the merest trifle, I was fain to apologise the following day, because the men were at a stand-still for orders, and Rose, not I, knew all about the plans.
But I kept away from her as much as I could,—away from the village even in order to avoid her. I began to mope, to tire of novel-reading, even of my own self, and hour by hour to sit lazily at the oriel window of the boudoir, dreaming idle day-dreams or reading my favourite ​“Idylls,” and feasting on the associations they conjured up.
The autumn was gliding away; the leaves were floating down from the copper beeches which skirted the flower garden, and my hopes were falling earthwards, too, one by one, withering and dying.
I had no mother or sister to whom to confide my grief, and I nursed it unwholesomely and miserably. My uncle was ill at the time, and Butterworth was too taken up in attending on him to observe me narrowly. I had nothing to amuse me—nothing pleasant to think about, and I was dissatisfied with myself. Had not Hedworth Charlton said I was leading a spoilt, useless life, letting my wide opportunities lie fallow? Perhaps if I had been better and wiser, I might have gained a higher place in his regard!
I used to sit pondering how I could improve myself—what great and good things I could do to benefit my fellow creatures. I was on a wrong track altogether; I wanted to do everything myself, not to win Grace and Help. The beautiful new schools would shortly be finished and opened; wouldn’t that be a great work? And Uncle John had made vague promises of building some almshouses afterwards. I must keep him up to the mark; but meanwhile—meanwhile I was so idle and dreary.
Morning after morning I used to see the woman at the lodge turn out her little tribe to run riot in the lane and fields, to idle, trifle, squabble. The village-school was closed—it was too far to send them to Hemsley, and there was no one to teach them or keep them out of mischief. Well, I used to sit all those long mornings in dreary laziness, and if a thought suggested itself to me how I might have gathered the children together, and instructed them for an hour or two, I thrust it aside; it wasn’t worth while; the school would be re-opened presently, and (the true reason) it would be too much trouble.
An infirm old woman lived in the cottage in the lane; she was a wretched object, bedridden with rheumatism; poor, friendless, helpless. I put her down as the first candidate for my projected hospital, and shut my ears to suggestions that a timely visit, a few verses of Scripture read in an audible voice, gifts of flannel, coal and other cottage comforts, or even a word of sympathy, or a morsel of pudding from my own luncheon-table would have been acceptable kindnesses. The door stood temptingly open whenever I passed, but I never entered, only I renewed to myself that promise about the almshouses: and the old woman died before they were built!
Why delay the end? It cannot come to anyone else with the like shock and bitterness it brought to me.
One Sunday morning, immediately after the close of the Session, I was startled by finding Hedworth Charlton in the rectory pew. When, through the opening of the crimson curtains, I first discovered him, he was looking over the same hymn-book as Rose Carmichael. The remainder of the service seemed to me as a trance.
I hurried blindly out of church. Some one was waiting for me in the porch; a firm hand grasped mine, and whispered words of greeting. Oh! what a happy tone it was, especially at the conclusion!
“And congratulate me, Amyce. Dear Rose has consented to be my wife; that is why I am here to-day.”
What I answered I know not; my brain was on fire—my eyes scorched with agony. The frosty autumn breeze blew keenly against my face; there was a clear unclouded sky over-head, and sunshine and the sharp shadows of gravestones lay before me on the grass.
“Are you obliged to go home immediately, Amyce? Cannot you spare one moment for good-wishes to Rose? See, she is waiting over yonder.”
I looked up. Rose Carmichael was standing by the rectory-gate, playfully tapping the privet hedge with her parasol. She seemed waiting, but also she seemed watching us. Something in her expression—in those stealthy glances under her long eyelashes—nerved me to self-control, and I went forward and held out my hand:
“God bless you, Rose; and grant you all the happiness you deserve.”
Was there sarcasm in my low accent? Perhaps there was.
Rapidly her liquid eyes sought mine, then the colour mounted to her forehead, and she looked down. I know not if for a moment she felt humiliated; she could not fail to have had a suspicion of my secret, and she had always professed herself to be my friend. So—but what are women-friends in this narrow-hearted world!
“You are not looking well, Amyce,” Hedworth Charlton observed; “you have lost your colour, and grown thin. I fear you have been over-done during Sir John’s illness. Couldn’t I help you in any way while I am here? Do not hesitate to tell me if I can; you know I am always your friend, and shall be doubly so by-and-by, I hope—” His smiling eyes were resting on Rose.
His friend! I started away ungraciously and hurried home. His friend!—the friend of Rose Carmichael’s husband—never! never!
When I reached the Towers I knew the news had travelled before me. Quickly as I gained my own room old Butterworth was there before me, crying and sobbing, trampling on some imaginary foe, circling me with loving arms and caresses. I had meant to be proud and self-restrained, and bear it all in silence, but grief and tears are infectious, and at the sight of her distress, I flung myself on to that sympathising breast just as I used to do in days of yore.
“Poor child!” Butterworth kept repeating, “poor child! poor child! and it’s all our faults. Master’s and mine, who threw you together! Oh, dear! poor fellow! he’s crying in his room like a babby, and he says it’s retribution. Amyce Dillon’s son is revenging his mother,—honey, ye’ll bear it bravely and not taunt the old man; he could not bear to see you miserable, and he’d blame himself all his life, if ye fretted and moaned.
“That nasty, mean hussy Rose, with her low, palavering ways! Didn’t I warn ye about her ​long sin; hadn’t I seen her game once before? Why did she come smiling an’ a mincing here every day last winter, worming herself round you, and as sweet as sugar on Master? Wasn’t it that she thought, failing younger men, an auld baronet warn’t to be despised, and that her doll’s face would look well for a ‘my lady?’ Plague take her! An’ there’s that poor weak-eyed curate gone away all in a sudden, an’ what d’ye think Dick Dawson’s mother told me just now? Why that yon Rose had flirted wi’ him, and made him no end of fine promises, an’ then turned him over cool as a cucumber when t’other came. Well, she’ll keep any man alive as gets her, I’ll awand her. She’s as full of creases as an onion.”
“Don’t—don’t—I can’t bear it—oh, Butterworth, I think my heart will break!”
The old woman’s manner changed. She clapped me on the back, and adopted the half-scolding tone by which she was wont to manage my uncle.
“Break! Stuff an’ nonsense, it will none break; hold your noise, Amyce Cloyse, one would think nobody had iver had a bit o’ trouble afore ye. It’s allus the way wi’ woman folks and childer, they mun hev measles, and cowpox, and love-fits, an’ get over ’em, it’s in the natur’ on ’em, and it’s a good thing done wi’. ’Tain’t many as love carries off—lor’, no!—not half so many as die o’ King cough, an’ those few, why they’re better gone, they’re poor weak criturs as has no constitutions. More heart folks have, longer life for ’em, for ’tain’t so soon broken and worsted. Heart makes folk live, and do, and forget; if ane prop breaks down, it clings round ’tother, and ay, Amyce, a true heart allus looks up to the sun, that’s to God, honey, an’ it don’t care then for a trampling heel, not it.”
Rude as was Butterworth’s consolation, it was genuine and wholesome, and, re-invigorated by it, I dare venture to my uncle’s room, and assure him by a silent kiss, that my life’s happiness had not been seriously impaired by a dream of love. Neither of us spoke of what had occurred, but after crying for a few minutes behind his handkerchief, the old man began as usual to fret and scold about the basin of beef-tea, which Stephen had brought up for his luncheon. He had forgotten my sorrow when I did not keep the memory alive by a show of misery. And what would have been the good of doing that?
But my uncle was at heart very kind and pitying to me, and in the first few days of compassion would willingly have conceded anything to my happiness. Was I lonely? I had carte blanche to go into society, and take the foremost place to which my position entitled me. Did I wish friends at home? there was a certain widowed cousin of his, who would be only too happy to come and bear me company. But Butterworth warned me against her. She said there “was never no getting Mrs. Arundel out o’ t’ house when she wor once in, and for her part (Butterworth’s), she was allus wary o’ folks wha left their hats i’ the hall:” so I acted on her hint, and assured my uncle I was perfectly content to remain where, and as I was.
And so I did, despite the pain of witnessing the various preparations of Rose Carmichael’s marriage. I was fortunately supplied with an excuse for declining an invitation to act bride’s-maid by the precarious state of my uncle’s health, and that plea also served to keep me a close prisoner to the Towers for the few weeks that intervened between the announcement and the marriage.
But when the wedding-day came, I could no longer restrain myself. Imprudent as I knew the course to be, I donned my hat and cloak, and stole through the grounds to the village, gaining admittance to the church through a small side door, of which we had the key.
I was hid behind the red curtain of our pew when the wedding train came up the chancel; I could almost have touched the bride as she passed. I saw her folds of satin and lace; the pearl locket at her throat which had doubtless been his gift; the orange flowers amid her luxuriant brown hair. I looked on her face, so beautiful, so cold, so heartless, the face that had robbed me, and I could scarcely restrain a groan. I dared not look at him.
The service was progressing. I was in a trance. I saw him take her hand, I heard the clear tones of his dear voice “for better for worse”—they were kneeling side by side.
Away! I could not bear it, I was maddened, I dared not stay, I could not command myself, I might do something rash! and the red curtain dropped from my hand, and I actually grovelled on the pew floor in agony.
There—they were safe in the vestry. I rearranged my disordered attire, and crept to the side-door. The crowd was round at the other side of the church where the carriages were waiting—only a little beggar-child leaning against a tomb saw me, and she came forward to ask charity. She was a piteous-looking little thing, with pinched, haggard features, and eyes unnaturally large and bright, and when I neglected her appeal she clung to my dress, and entreated me—for the love of God. But I thrust her aside, I was hurrying to avoid detection, and the next moment I had gained the postern in the park wall, and was safe on my way homewards.
At home again—no one had noticed my absence—I was breathless with running, fevered with excitement, and I flung myself down on a low chair in my lady’s boudoir, and covered my face with my hands. How long I crouched there, I know not; the clear red fire in the grate flung a warm light over my clasped hands, chased shadows here and there amid my sandy hair. But I was impervious to heat and light, for I was asleep.
I woke with a start. Some one was bending over me, looking in my face. Eagerly I raised my head. Were not those Hedworth Charlton’s soft brown eyes which met mine? and with what a rare expression of love and tenderness.
My heart beat frantically. Where was I—what had happened? See it was he, standing by the fireplace, and looking at me with an unmistakeable glance of affection, such a glance as two months ago he had cast on Rose Carmichael by the privet hedge, only far softer, more pleading, more tender. Could it only have been a dream about Rose, and the marriage, and everything? Could he at heart care for me still and only for me!
​Yes, he was surely by me, bending lower and lower, nearer and nearer, till I fancied I felt his breath on my forehead, and I stretched out my hands, and sprang upward to meet him. Alas! my arms grasped only the hollow air, and the sound of a coal falling on the hearth awoke me more thoroughly.
No one was there—the room was empty—my chair was in its old position, and the hat I had flung aside on my return from the village, was lying at my feet.
I raised my eyes to where I had beheld the vision, and there was the picture in the oval frame,—the thorn-encircled Head, and an expression of Divine Compassion in those sorrowful eyes. “Je t’ai aimé d’un amour éternel,” spake from the scroll like the voice of an angel.
Conviction rushed upon me. I bowed down my head, and wept those tears which are at once prayers and the seed of a Higher Life. Like Peter of old, I wept bitterly because I had denied my Lord.
Through my tears I glanced up again, but my eyes were hazy, and I could not see distinctly. Try as I would, the portrait faded before me, the pitying gaze seemed averted; as I watched breathlessly, eagerly, it seemed to change, and no longer to regard me with love and compassion.
In the place of that picture of a crucified Saviour, there rose the pinched, careworn face of that little child to whose appeal I had lately turned a deaf ear. She was looking at me through the mist, haunting me with her hollow, reproachful eyes,—had she not urged me “for the love of God?”
I writhed in agony. A moment ago, hope and comfort had come to me from a Divine Source, now they were obscured by the very memory of my own sin. Where was that text which had spoken to me of God’s love? What was it? I could remember nothing, no text whatsoever, save one which said: “Inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of these, ye did it not to Me.”
I started on to my feet; I faced the real picture. I told myself it was a dream, the delusion of a fevered brain; but for all that, I could not divest myself of the impression it had made. I was glad to see, through the window, the real beggar-child stealing up to the house to ask charity, glad for once in my life to go down and relieve the afflicted.
All this happened years ago, but I have never forgotten my Dream of Love!
D. Richmond.