First Love. Mrs. Loudon
without any one but Henry knowing the cause of her illness.
“My peur bairn’s doon-hearted wid yon darkling wedding, and that ne’er do weel o’a Jenny Owlet,” said David.
When Betsy recovered, which was not for a considerable time, she told her father her fears, and entreated him to go to the bridge.
“It was aw nonsense,” he said, “and no but fancy! The lad had na mickle to say for his sel, to be sure, bit he was no sic a feul as aw that; and if there had been ony body faud i’ the water, of a mischance, it wad be owr late tle help them noo.”
However, to satisfy his daughter, he walked down the road; but returned, saying, he could see nout. “It was no but yon Jenny Owlet again, or may be a wild duck; there plenty o’ them i’ the Senbee vale. And, what’s mare,” he added, “I wadend care an’ we had twa on them noo, twirling afoor this rouser.”
So saying, he placed himself in his own large chair before the said rouser, which he roused still more, with a gigantic poker, as was his invariable custom; while his wife laid on the board smoking dishes, one of which was graced, if not by two wild ducks, by two good tame geese. Henry, mean time, was preparing, scientifically, a large bowl of punch; to which was added, on the present occasion, several bottles of choice wine, purloined from the cellars of Lodore House.
In the morning, the miller who lives near to where the river——, after wandering through the vale of S—B—, and passing under the bridge of which we have spoken, empties itself into the sea, found, stopped in its course, as it floated towards the ocean, by his mill-dam, the body of poor John Dixon. And Betsy was long before she could get it out of her mind, how his heart had beat against her hand so short a time before it lay still, and cold, in the mill-stream.
CHAPTER XIV.
“My soul is tormented
With fear! Ah, they are dead!”
Lady L. had not increased her family since the birth of the twins, and they were, by this time, between four and five years old. Her ladyship now, however, expected to do so, and the event was to take place at Lodore.
Dr. Dixon, too, such was the almost superstitious confidence placed in him by Mrs. Montgomery, was to be again employed, which was matter of no small pride, as well as delight of heart, to the good old man.
He did not fail, as may be believed, to mention in every house in Keswick, and that before he felt a pulse, or even contemplated the hue of a tongue, that an humble individual like himself, had been selected to usher into this eventful life the future Earl of L. “For it would be a boy, no doubt,” ran on the Doctor, “as there are already two girls; lovely little creatures!—the Ladies Julia and Frances L. Both the future brides of noble earls, doubtless. But, respecting the seniority of the Lady Julia L.,” continued the Doctor, proud of having it in his power to give little people so much information about great people, “the circumstances are very remarkable—very remarkable, indeed! And if her little ladyship makes as good use of her time through life, as she did for the first three quarters of an hour, she will be fortunate—very fortunate—no doubt of it! Three quarters of an hour only, the elder of her fair sister; yet, by that short space, is her ladyship entitled to the sum of three thousand pounds per annum; to which fine property, situated in the shire of——, her ladyship is, by the will of the late Major Morven, of age on the day that she completes her eighteenth year. The property has on it, the Earl tells me, a fine old family-seat, called the Craigs, with wood, they say, worth forty thousand pounds! The mansion, too, I understand, contains a gallery of invaluable pictures, a fine library, with service of plate, &c.”
The old gentleman made a very curious will, leaving the young lady entirely her own mistress, independent of father, mother, or guardian. “For,” said the good major, “I had not been an old bachelor, had they let me follow my own way in my youth.” “I was one of the witnesses myself,” continued the doctor, “and heard him say these words. The major was gallant, you see, as all soldiers should be, and was determined that his will, should not thwart the will of a lady! The will! the will! Well, come, that’s very fair, a’n’t it?”
About this time, Mrs. Montgomery received a letter from the master of the S—B—school, stating, that he had been obliged, however reluctantly, to expel Mr. St. Aubin from his establishment, for the following offences, namely—many scandalous irregularities, respecting the young women of the village; holding intercourse with the crew of a smuggling vessel, laying off S—B—head; absenting himself for days and nights, it is supposed on board the said vessel; and re-appearing in a shameful state of intoxication.
Soon after this epistle had been read, and before its contents had been half talked over, Henry himself arrived. Some charges he denied, others scoffed at; but did not succeed in satisfying Mrs. Montgomery.
He was sitting with her and Lady L. in the breakfast-room, which opens on the lawn. Speaking in answer to the account of his being supposed to have formed an unjustifiable intimacy, at least, if not a marriage, with Betsy Park, he said: “You must know, ma’am, the people of that village are always getting some one to swear that their daughters are married to every gentleman’s son in the school, just to extort money. They consider it quite a trade, I assure you,” he added; seeing that what he had said had made some impression. At this moment, a tradesman-like looking man appeared on the lawn.
On perceiving Henry, instead of directing his steps to the regular entrance, he came up to the French window, or glass-door, which was standing open. Stopping a moment, he said, respectfully, to Mrs. Montgomery: “May I comeb ene, madam?” His dress and manner were so decent, and he seemed so much heated and fatigued, that, without hesitation, she said: “Certainly, sir.” He put the lifted foot, which had waited in that position for her reply, over the threshold, and, turning to Henry, said, in a determined manner: “Where is my Bess, sir? Where is my bairn?”
“You needn’t ask me,” replied Henry, turning pale, and speaking as though a lock-jaw were coming on; “the last I saw of her was in your own house.”
“Oh, doon’t say so, Mr. Henry!” exclaimed the poor man, clasping his hands entreatingly.
“It’s very true though,” said Henry, gaining courage.
“It’s not true!” returned David, with sudden fierceness, “or, if it is,” he added, changing again to accents of despair; “there’s nay body in this warld that kens whare she is!” He paused; then, with forced composure subjoined, “She gade oot o’ the hoose, the morn after yee gade away, and she’s niver cam back syne.”
“She is gone off with some sweetheart, I suppose,” replied Henry, affecting carelessness.
“For sham o’ yeersel!” cried David, “for sham o’ yeersel; and she at the doon-lying wid yeer bairn! Wha was she gang wid bit wid you? Ye ken weel enew, she was nane o’ that sort, or ye wad niver have been forced til mack her yeer wife.”
“She’s no wife of mine, man,” interrupted Henry, “and don’t dare to say so!”
“I will dare,” returned David, “til spack the truth.” Henry switched his boots with his whip, and whistled a tune. David continued—“She is your wife, Mr. St. Aubin; and your lawfu’ wife, afoor heaven, and lawfu’ witnesses beside.”
“Neither you, nor your false witnesses, can say that you saw us married,” said Henry, with a sort of laugh.
“If we didna, we heard yee,” replied poor David.
“Then it would seem, by your own confession, that you have nothing but hear-say to found your story upon,” wittily retorted master Henry. “You had better send the fellow away, ma’am,” he added; turning, as he hurried out of the room, to Mrs. Montgomery; who, together with Lady L., had hitherto listened in mute astonishment.
“Look yee theere!” cried David: “oh,