Volume Three—Chapter Twenty Six.
At the New Home.
Parted at last, for Harry had seen father and daughter into an omnibus, one which must have been Ben Jonson’s “chariot at hand here of love, in which my lady rideth,” and drawn by swans or doves, instead of a jangling piece of wood and iron work, with a wretched knacker on either side of the pole. How memory, though, dwelt upon her whose soft kiss—the first—was yet dewy sweet upon his lips—upon his, for she was his promised wife; and as he passed through the streets, walking as if upon air, flushed, proud, happy, he saw nothing but the bright future his fancy painted.
Then came the recollection of Janet, and he admired her as he thought of the calm resignation with which she seemed to pour out the lavish tenderness of her nature upon Patty.
At this point Harry glided selfishly away again in thought to add fresh colouring to his happy future.
Harry was early at Highgate the next day, to find Mrs Jared very stern and uncompromising; but he was too much for her in his downright honest declaration.
“Don’t be hard upon me, Mrs Pellet—don’t send me away; for indeed I love her very, very dearly.”
Mrs Jared was beaten, as well she might be, for there were Jared and Patty looking on. It was not consistent, she knew; but Harry stayed that day and dined with them, and saw Jared ready to go off to the vicar’s, stay to have a string tucked in here—Jared always was great in strings—and a brushing there; while, in the exertion of making the most of himself, he burst a pearl button off his wrist-band.
And now Patty was called into requisition to sew that button on again; and I vow and declare that the fresh disc of pearl which she held between her lips while she made a knot at the end of her thread, was not so bright and pure-looking as the little regular teeth over which Harry went into raptures.
Who would not have been Jared, and had that downy cheek laid against his wrist? Why, if it had been any other wrist, it must have beat and throbbed at a redoubled rate! Or who would not have been the thread which Patty bit in two when the button had been duly stabbed in all its eyes over and over again? Why, that thread must have been conscious, and enjoyed it, or it never would have held out so long, instead of being bitten through at first!
Jared gone, leaving Harry Clayton in his fold amongst the lambs of his flock. Very reprehensible, no doubt; but no worse than Mrs Jared’s behaviour. For though left at home as guardian, she either turned wilfully blind, or else her assertion was true that there was so much to settle and arrange that she thought she never should get to be at home in her new house. In fact, she was constantly away; and when by chance she did come into the room, it was to murmur to Patty about some precious thing or another that she was sure must have been left at Duplex Street.
Strange proceedings there were that afternoon at Highgate. Why could not Harry allow Patty to busily ply her needle instead of insisting upon holding one hand in his? Why, too, must he fancy that he had grown domestic, and want to help and prepare the tea? for in spite of the change in circumstances, it was hard work for Mrs Pellet and Patty to break themselves of their old homely ways. Harry kept the latter in a state of nervous flutter the whole time as he whispered. But then, at a certain stage in their existence, people do make themselves so absurd, or rather, as Richard Pellet used to say, “such fools.” The fact is, lovers imagine the whole world to be blind to their actions, when the fact is—bless the sweet innocency of their hearts!—the handkerchief is around their own eyes.
Yes; Harry must make the toast, which ought now, of course, to have been made in the kitchen—and fill up a great deal of the available space by the fire, manifesting not the slightest intention of going away so long as he could feast his eyes. There was no one there but a couple of small Pellets—little round Pellets, who sat very still, and looked on most solemnly. It was not at all surprising, seeing how such instruction is neglected at our great seats of learning, that Harry Clayton, in spite of honours, should burn that toast very often, and leave great white patches where all should have been brown.
Yes; they were as homely as ever at Highgate, though in the midst of plenty; for Mrs Jared said that she could never settle to the ways adopted by some people, even if she had a million a week. And now she was away inspecting a regiment of white jam-pots suffering from an attack of mould; so if there was any cause for the ruddy glow in Patty’s cheeks, it must have been due to a combination of Mrs Jared’s unconventional behaviour, and the example set by Adam and Eve some little time since; though there is still the possibility of the fire being to blame.
That afternoon glided away magically, and Jared was late for tea. It did not matter in the least, though he apologised for being so long away. And then what an evening was spent! for Canau arrived with Janet and a long black case, the sight of which set Jared’s fingers strumming upon the table.
Musical, of course, they were all the evening, and to Patty the notes now were those of love. But there was room for sadness even then, and Patty’s heart felt heavy as she saw the yearning, eager, almost envious look in Janet’s eyes, and thought of the poor girl’s future, till she crossed the room, and told her that she should always be happy could they but be near.