OUR HONEYMOON.
SATURDAY, MAY 25, 18—
I cannot but confess it—I felt hurt, twitted by the easiness, the unconcern of Fred. Of course I should have thought it very foolish, nay, worse in him, to be jealous. That would have been ridiculous, unworthy of him. Nevertheless, I could not help endeavouring to place myself in his situation—to enter into the feelings of a husband, and to think myself a man!
That a letter—and such a letter—should have been sent to me, was, of course, a mistake. But, for all that—putting myself in the place of a man and a husband—for that was, of course, the most reasonable and the most natural way for a woman to come to a right conclusion—I could not have been so calm, so tranquil, I may, indeed, say—so stone-cold. Indeed, judging, moreover, from my own feelings as a woman and a wife, it would have been impossible: not that I'm of a jealous habit of mind. No, certainly; I should say, quite the reverse. Still, it is quite plain, that if we really value and love a thing—we must be anxious accordingly. That is but natural. Nevertheless, I cannot disguise it from myself that Fred—even after he had handed me the letter to read, and I—all in a twitter I must say—had read it to him, did nothing but laugh. I've no doubt he was very right; and yet, if I know myself and I'd been in his place—I don't think I should have laughed.
"Read the letter, Lotty,"—cried Fred—"by all means read it; it may amuse us."
"To be sure," said I; "not that it can be for me." And then, when I opened the stupid bit of paper, it seemed to scorch my face and something came into my throat, as I began to read the ridiculous words—'My dear and beautiful girl.'
"Must be a mistake," cried Fred: though I thought I saw him just bite his lip, and just a little wrinkle his eye brows. "But go on."
"'I have beheld you in silent admiration; but now I feel longer silence impossible!' I shan't read any more," said I, "for how can it concern me—I mean us?"
"Go on," cried Fred, hooking his fore-finger round his nose and rubbing it in his manner, when he is thinking.
'It is plain you were intended for a brighter destiny than what has befallen you.'
"Come," said Fred in his aggravating way, "that's no compliment to me."
"To you! Then, if it comes to that," said I, "and if for a minute you think this stuff was written to me, you may read the rest yourself." And with this—with all the spirit I could—I flung the letter at him. Yes; at him; and as he looked up, and a little astonished, but more hurt, as I thought, opened his eyes at me—I felt myself so wrong, so rebuked, that I flung my arms about his neck, and the next snatched up the note to tear it to pieces.
"Stop, Lotty;" cried Fred; "as it is not our property, we've no right to destroy it." And then he put the letter in his breast pocket; and, as he did so, I had a twinge of the heart, a cold chill, for all the world as though he had put a viper there.
"Fred, dear Fred," said I, and what ailed me I couldn't tell; but all I recollect was that saying or stammering, "let us go home," I fell upon his neck; and after awhile coming to myself, I found Josephine—now pale and now flustered—at my side. But still the wish was in my thoughts. "Do, do let us go home."
"Well, Lotty, love; we will go home. In a little while; a very little while; a day or two"—
"Now, Fred; to-day."
"Why, to-day, Lotty, is impossible. The fact is, I expect—but never mind;" and I felt sure there was something Fred was hiding from me, something I ought to know. But before I could reply, he took his hat and left the room. I don't know what could have possessed me; but, for the minute, I felt alone—all alone in the world; and the next, such a newer, deeper love—I had thought it impossible to be so—for Frederick; and then—but Josephine was present, looking so curiously at me, that I was directly called to myself.
"You'd never think of going home, Ma'am, without a peep at France?" said Josephine.
"What I think can in no way concern you," I replied very freezingly; for, somehow, I could not quite understand Josephine's looks.
"Certainly not, Ma'am; only to be so near France, and not to cross, what would people say? And lace I'm told so cheap there! Not that I wish to go myself. Certainly not. Oh dear no. Old England for me. I'm sure I can stay here till you come back with the greatest pleasure in—no, not exactly that: still, Ma'am, I can stay."
And the more she talked, and the more I looked at her, the more she seemed in a sort of pucker and flurry that—I'm not suspicious: still, it did appear mysterious.
"I shall not go to France. We shall return straight home, and you may, or may not—just as you please, Josephine, so make it entirely agreeable to yourself—go back with us, or stay here alone." And with this, I left the room to join Fred; and he—I discovered to my great annoyance—had gone out. Gone out! It was very odd.
I couldn't rest indoors. So, without a word to Josephine, I put on my things—snatched them on I should rather say—and followed Fred. Up and down the beach—but no signs of him. Where could he be?
As the time went on, and I continued to look for and expect him, I could scarcely contain myself. I sat down upon the beach; and the sun, setting, looked so magnificent. I tried to calm and comfort myself, making out a home in the clouds. Such a home! With such gardens and golden plains and palaces of ruby pillars—but no; it wouldn't do. And I felt all the angrier that I had so tried to cheat myself.
At the moment, who should glide past me—not seeing me, as I thought—but the very gypsey child who had brought that foolish bouquet, and that stupid note!
I resolved, taking a minute's counsel with myself, to discover the individual who had employed the gypsey; so followed the child, who suddenly seemed to guess my determination. "Want a nosegay, Ma'am?" said the girl. "Buy a nosegay to get me a bit of bread."
"Now, if I buy this nosegay"—and the little creature looked at me with her glittering eyes, as much as to say—in her artful manner—she was quite a match for me—"Will you tell me the truth?"
"Yes, lady; that I will, whether you buy or not, and sixpence will be cheap at the money."
"Well, then, who told you to bring me that nosegay yesterday?"
"Oh," cried the perplexing creature, with a burst of enjoyment, jumping up and down—"such a gen'l'man! Give me a shilling."
"And how did you know me—I mean, did he point me out to you?"—
"Yes;" answered the little elf—for she looked to me like a mischievous sprite, she laughed as I thought so wickedly—"yes: you was with another."
"Another?"—
"Yes: but that was in the fore-part of the day; and you both went away so quick, that you give me no chance; and the gen'l'man called me back. When I seed you in the arternoon, then I give it you."
"And what sort of a—a gentleman?"
"He's now a walking—or was a walking just by the—but would you like to see him?"
"No; certainly not."
"'Cause you can. Give me sixpence, and I'll shew him you, and say nothin'—not a word, my lady. Only round here—'tisn't a minute. I'll walk first."
Without a thought, I was about to follow the child, when Frederick coming behind me, laid his hand upon my arm. "Lotty, my dear," and without looking at him, I thought I should have dropped at his voice.
"Frederick!"
"Not going to have your fortune told?" and he glanced at the gypsey.
"My dear Fred, this, you will remember, is the child that"—
"I know," said Fred, as the gypsey with a caper took to her heels. "I know; but Lotty, my love, you have surely forgotten an old friend? My bridesman, Tom Truepenny."
It was Mr. Truepenny. He had come to Brighton upon business; Fred saw him as he alighted from the coach. "He didn't want to break upon us," said Fred: "for you know what a shy, modest fellow Tom is; but I said you'd be delighted to see him."
"Delighted, indeed, Fred," said I.
"Delighted, indeed," stammered Mr. Truepenny, colouring like a girl.
"He has a little business to do, but has promised to join us in the evening," said Fred.
"Oh, certainly, with pleasure—in the evening," said Truepenny.
"You'll not fail, Tom?" cried Fred, holding up his finger.
"Depend on my punctuality," replied Mr. Truepenny. And then—strangely confused as I thought—he bowed to me, and hurried off.
"He's an excellent fellow," said Fred.
"It was very lucky that you met him, Fred," said I.
"Very," answered Fred.