Sharing Her Crime: A Novel. May Agnes Fleming

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СКАЧАТЬ Erliston, can I have a few moments' private conversation with you this morning?" said Oranmore, as he sought the squire, whom Mrs. Gower was just helping to ensconce in his easy-chair.

      "Certainly, certainly, my boy. Mrs. Gower, bring the rest of the pillows by and by. 'Time for everything,' as Solomon says. Clear out now, ma'am, while I attend to this young man's case."

      Barry Oranmore stood in the middle of the floor, resting one hand lightly on the back of a chair. Squire Erliston, propped up in an easy-chair with pillows and cushions, and wearing an unusually benign expression of countenance – caused, probably, by Miss Aurora's extraordinary quietness on that morning.

      "You have doubtless perceived, sir, my attentions to your daughter," went on the young man, in a tone that was almost careless. "Miss Lizzie, I am happy to say, returns my affection; and, in short, sir, I have asked this interview to solicit your daughter's hand."

      He bowed slightly, and stood awaiting a reply. The squire jumped from his seat, kicked one pillow to the other end of the room, waved another above his head, and shouted:

      "Bless my soul! it's just what I wanted! Give us your hand, my dear boy. Solicit her hand! Take it, take it, with all my heart. If she had a dozen of hands, you should have them all."

      "I thank you sincerely, Squire Erliston. Believe me, it only needed your consent to our union to fill my cup of happiness to the brim."

      His voice was low – almost scornful; and the emphasis upon "happiness" was bitter, indeed. But the squire, in his delight, neither heeded nor noticed.

      "The wedding must come off immediately, my dear fellow. We'll have a rousing one, and no mistake. I was afraid Liz might run off with some penniless scamp, as Esther did; but now it's all right. Yes, the sooner the wedding comes off the better. 'He who giveth not his daughter in marriage, doeth well; but he who giveth her doeth better,' as Solomon ought to know, seeing he had some thousands of 'em. Be off now, and arrange with Lizzie the day for the wedding, while I take a sleep. When it's all over, wake me up. There, go! Mrs. Gower! hallo! Mrs. Gower, I say! come here with the pillows."

      Oranmore hurried out, while Mrs. Gower hurried in – he to tell Lizzie of the success of his mission, and she to prepare her master for the arms of Morpheus.

      That day fortnight was fixed upon as their marriage-day. The Bishop of P – was to visit St. Mark's, and during his advent in the village the nuptials were to be celebrated.

      And such a busy place as Sunset Hall became after the important fact was announced! Poor Mrs. Gower lost, perceptibly, fifty pounds of flesh, with running in and out, and up and down stairs. Old carpets and old servants were turned out, and new curtains and French cooks turned in. Carpets and custards, and ice-creams and Aurora's screams, and milliners and feathers, and flowers and flounces, and jellies and jams, and upholstery reigned supreme, until the squire swore by all the "fiends in flames" that it was worse than pandemonium, and rushed from the place in despair to seek refuge with Giles Fox, and smoke his pipe in peace at the "Eagle."

      Barry Oranmore, finding his bride so busily engaged superintending jewels, and satins, and laces, as to be able to dispense with his services, mounted his horse each day, and seldom returned before night. And, amid all the bustle and confusion, no one noticed that he grew thinner and paler day after day; nor the deep melancholy filling his dark eyes; nor the bitter, self-scorning look his proud, handsome face ever wore. They knew not how he paced up and down his room, night after night, trying to still the sound of one voice that was ever mournfully calling his name. They knew not that when he quitted the brilliantly-lighted rooms, and plunged into the deep, dark forest, it was to shut out the sight of a sad, reproachful face, that ever haunted him, day and night.

      Lizzie was in her glory, flitting about like a bird from morning till night. Such wonderful things as she had manufactured out of white satin and Mechlin lace, and such confusion as she caused – flying through the house, boxing the servants' ears, and lecturing Mrs. Gower and shaking Aurora – who had leave now to yell to her heart's content – and turning everything topsy-turvy, until the squire brought down his fist with a thump, and declared that though Solomon had said there was a time for everything, neither Solomon, nor any other man, could ever convince him that there was a time allotted for such a racket and rumpus as that.

      But out of chaos, long ago, was brought forth order; and the "eve before the bridal" everything in Sunset Hall was restored to peace and quietness once more. The rooms were perfectly dazzling with the glitter of new furniture and the blaze of myriads of lusters. And such a crowd as on the wedding night filled those splendid rooms! There was Mrs. Gower, magnificent in brown velvet, preserved for state occasions like the present, with such a miraculous combination of white ribbons and lace on her head. There was the squire, edifying the public generally with copious extracts from Solomon and some that were not from Solomon. There was Mrs. Oranmore, grim and gray as ever, moving like the guilty shadow of a lost soul, through those gorgeous rooms and that glittering crowd, with the miserable feeling at her heart, that her only son was to be offered that night a sacrifice on the altar of her pride and ambition. There was Doctor Wiseman, all legs and arms, as usual, slinking among the guests. There was the bishop, a fat, pompous, oily-looking gentleman, in full canonicals, waiting to tie the Gordian knot.

      There was a bustle near the door, a swaying to and fro of the crowd, and the bridal party entered. Every voice was instantaneously hushed, every eye was fixed upon them. How beautiful the bride looked, with her elegant robes and gleaming jewels, her downcast eyes, and rose-flushed cheeks, and half-smiling lips. The eyes of all the gentlemen present were fixed wistfully upon her. And the eyes of the ladies wandered to the bridegroom, with something very like a feeling of awe, as they saw how pale and cold he was looking – how different from any bridegroom they had ever seen before. Were his thoughts wandering to another bridal, in a land beyond the sea, with one for whose blue eyes and golden hair he would then willingly have surrendered fame, and wealth, and ambition? And now, she who had left friends, and home, and country for his sake, was deserted for another. Yet still that unknown, penniless girl was dearer than all the world beside. Well might he look and feel unlike a bridegroom, with but one image filling his heart, but one name on his lips – "Eveleen! Eveleen!"

      But no one there could read the heart, throbbing so tumultuously beneath that cold, proud exterior. They passed through the long rooms – the bishop stood before them – the service began. To him it seemed like the service for the dead – to her it was the most delightful thing in the world. There was fluttering of fans, flirting of perfumed handkerchiefs, smiling lips and eyes, and

      "With decorum all things carried;

      Miss smiled, and blushed, and then was – married."

      The ceremony was over, and Lizzie Erliston was Lizzie Erliston no longer.

      But just at that moment, when the crowd around were about to press forward to offer their congratulations, a loud, ringing footstep, that sounded as though shod with steel, was heard approaching. A moment more, and an uninvited guest stood among them. The tall, thin, sharp, angular figure of a woman past middle age, with a grim, weird, old-maidenish face; a stiff, rustling dress of iron-gray; a black net cap over her grizzled locks, and a tramp like that of a dragoon, completed the external of this rather unprepossessing figure.

      All fell back and made way for her, while a murmur: "Miss Hagar! What brings Miss Hagar here?" passed through the room.

      She advanced straight to where Lizzie stood, leaning proudly and fondly on the arm of Oranmore, and drawing forth a wreath of mingled cypress and dismal yew, laid it amid the orange blossoms on the head of the bride.

      With a shriek of superstitious terror, Lizzie tore the ominous wreath from her head, and flung it on the floor. Heeding not the action, the woman raised her СКАЧАТЬ