OUR HONEYMOON.
SUNDAY, MAY 26, 18—.
"My dear," said Fred, this morning—"I—I don't think I can go to church. But, of course, you can go, I don't feel like myself this morning."
"I don't wonder at that, love. Indeed, you don't look yourself. But I expected as much."—
"You, Lotty!" and Fred opened his eyes.
"Why, I knew what would come of it. Here were you out till twelve o'clock"—
"It wanted a quarter," said Fred, as if a quarter could make any difference.
"Twelve o'clock," said I firmly, "allowing for watches, before you came home."
"I told you—I was out talking with Tom," and Fred tapped the table.
"Well, if I must say what I think, Fred; I don't like Mr. Truepenny. I—do—not—like—him."
"I don't wish you to like him, my dear. You're to like and love me; and to love one man industriously and conscientiously is as much as any woman can be expected to do. More no reasonable husband can ask of her."
But this I wouldn't seem to listen to. "Twelve o'clock," I repeated. "Well, what you could find to talk about all that time—and I sitting here at the window alone"—
"You might have gone to bed," said Frederick.
"Gone to bed! And you out! Why, what can you think me made of?" But he only looked at me from under his eyes and laughed. "I'm not a stock or a stone."
"Certainly not, my darling. I may perhaps be permitted to observe—in your own picturesque language—quite the reverse. Quite the reverse," and he again tapped the table.
"No, love"—said I; for I thought I'd at once nip that notion in the bud—"of course I don't wish, in fact, I should never think of such a thing, as to desire to control you in the choice of your friends. If I don't like Mr. Truepenny, why I can't help it; and there's an end. But what I wish to say, my love, is this—oh, it's no laughing matter, for I'm quite in earnest, I assure you—if Mr. Truepenny thinks he's to keep you out till twelve at night, and I'm to go to bed; if he thinks that"—
"But I don't believe"—said Fred coolly—"he thinks anything of the matter. Indeed, what is it to him whether you never go to bed at all?"
"Of course; nothing. Only I'm not going to sit up and say nothing. A woman's not to be kept out of her bed as if her soul wasn't her own."—
"Why, your soul doesn't wear a nightcap, does it?" asked Fred, meaning to be aggravating.
"I don't know that," said I; for, as I've said, I was determined to nip the notion in the bud. "Nevertheless"—for I wasn't to be put off—"what could you talk of till twelve o'clock?"
Fred said nothing, but looked up at the ceiling.
"No good, I'm sure," said I in a bit of a passion, and before I knew it.
"Charlotte!" cried Frederick, and his eyes flashed, as I'd never seen 'em. And then in a moment he looked kind, and I thought sad; and holding out his hand, he said, looking at me and his eyes softening,—"Lotty, love, don't let us quarrel."
My heart was in my throat, and my arm about his neck. "We shall never quarrel, Fred," said I. "But what I meant to say was—what an odd person Mr. Truepenny is."
"Odd? A most excellent fellow!" said Frederick with energy.
"Of course. You wouldn't have any other for a friend: I know that, love. But what I mean is, he's so confused—so bashful."
"Yes. A bachelor's fault. I was so myself once. But it's wonderful what confidence marriage gives a man. Kiss me, my darling."
"There, now, Fred; it's Sunday," said I, not knowing what to say. "But why should Mr. Truepenny be in such a twitter when he sees me? He blushes and stammers, and"—
"It's your beauty, no doubt," said Fred.
"Nonsense!"
"A solemn truth. Ah! my dear, it's a great comfort for timid men that beauty, like the elephant, doesn't know its strength. Otherwise, how it would trample on us! It's a fact, Lotty, if you had only known half your power, you'd never have married me. Certainly not. But then women never do. Looking-glasses are thrown away upon 'em, poor things. When you consented to take me, Lotty, I don't know that I didn't feel quite crushed by your condescension. Quite crushed. Yes: the last knowledge a woman ever acquires is a proper sense of the power of her own beauty. Otherwise, Lotty, they'd never throw it away upon us; but live and die like the roses. Don't you think they would? Like the roses?"
I said nothing, but was just gently pulling his ear, when the church bells struck out.
"If it isn't church-time," said I; "but I'm drest. Nothing, but my bonnet."
"Well, Lotty, you can go without me; yes, you"—and then he paused, and looked at me, I thought so strangely, and said—"no, my love: you shall not go alone. We'll go together." With this, he left the room; and a sudden shadow seemed to fall about me.
The next moment, the servant introduced "Mr. Truepenny." With his face the truth flashed upon me that—that—I didn't know what. But, instantly, I felt resolved to find it out; and so, in a minute, was in my very best spirits.
"Frederick," said I, "will be here directly. He's preparing for church."
"Church," said Mr. Truepenny, as if the word half stuck between his lips.
"Don't you ever go to church, Mr. Truepenny? I mean"—
"Always," said he. "But the fact is, when one comes to the sea-side"—
"Peter's boat," I observed very seriously, "was at the sea-side."
"To be sure, certainly," said he; then he looked at the toe of his boot, and then at the pattern of the carpet; in fact, anywhere but at me. Then he coughed, and said—for all the world as if he was talking of prawns—"I'm told there's very good preaching about here."
"I should hope, Mr. Truepenny, that there is good preaching everywhere; that is, if persons are only disposed to listen to it." Mr. Truepenny—his eye still on his boot—bowed. "I hope," said I, "you will accompany us to church?"
"What! I?" cried the man, really alarmed.
"To be sure: why not?" said Fred, coming into the room. "And then, Tom, we'll take a walk—Lotty isn't equal to the fatigue"—how did he know that?—"and then we'll all dine, and comfortably close the day together."
"Well, I—I—I've no objection," said Mr. Truepenny; as though desperately making up his mind to endure the worst.
"A most admirable preacher, I'm told. Has preached before his Gracious Majesty, when Prince Regent," said Fred.
"Indeed?" said Mr. Truepenny, as if he wished to be astonished.
"A great favourite at Brighton; he's so extremely mild and well-bred. Touches upon the pomps and vanities of this wicked world—and scourges the miserable sinners who keep carriages—gently, tenderly. For all the world as if with a bunch of peacock's feathers you'd dust so many images of Dresden China."
"That's lucky," said Mr. Truepenny.
"Why lucky?" I asked—for there was something in the man's manner.
"I meant to say," he stammered, "that there are times when one doesn't like—like one's sins to be—bullied—that is, not at the sea-side."
"Quite right, Tom," said Fred, who I could see was helping him out. "Very well in one's own parish church, but"—
"We shall be too late," said I, and I ran from the room; and in a minute—never in all my life did I put my bonnet on so quick—in a minute I was ready.
The church was extremely full—as we afterwards found—for the season. Frederick was particularly serious; and for Mr. Truepenny, if he'd been listening to his own condemned sermon, he couldn't have been more solemn. It was odd, too, I thought, the glances he now and then cast towards me. And particularly when the clergyman said—and he seemed, I really did think for the minute, as though he was looking right into our pew, when he said—"Thou shalt do no murder"—at the very words, Mr. Truepenny let his prayer-book slip, and made such a start to catch it, that he drew all eyes upon us. I saw Frederick colour scarlet, and bite his lips as he glanced at his friend. At last the service was over, and we got away.
"A very nice sermon," said Mr. Truepenny, trying to say something.
"Very soothing," I added; for I knew he was half-asleep all the time.
"Yes; that's it," said he: "but that's what I like, when I come to a watering-place. Something quiet, something to think over."
Well we returned to the inn; and somehow we got through the day. I don't know how late Mr. Truepenny would have sat; but, for all Fred's nods and winks, I was determined to sit him out. At last,—it was nearly twelve—at last he went away.
"We shall meet in the morning," said Fred to him.
"Of—of course," said Mr. Truepenny; and then with the awkwardest bow in the world, he left me and Fred together.
"We'd better go to bed," said Fred. "Isn't it late?"
"Very," said I; "and for my part I thought Mr. Truepenny was never going."
I went into my room, and—there upon my table—was a slip of paper written in Josephine's hand, with these words:
"If you really love master, you'll not let him get up to-morrow morning!"
And now all the horror was plain as light! "Get up!" I thought—and all a woman's resolution came upon me—"only let me once get him well to bed, and he doesn't get up." I listened for his footsteps. He came. I met him with a smile; and didn't I lock the door?