OUR HONEYMOON.
MONDAY, MAY 27, 18—
"Tom's a good fellow,"—said Frederick, when he got to bed.
"I don't want to hear anything of Tom now," said I; for suddenly I felt as if I could have—well, I don't know what; but I did for the minute almost hate the man.
"He goes very early to-morrow. By the first coach, love. I've promised to see him off."
"How very kind of you, Fred;" and I could almost have cried, he seemed as if it was so easy for him to try to deceive me. "Going to see him off? Then—for it's very late; for my part, I thought the man would never go—then you'd better go to sleep, Fred; that you may be up. Otherwise you'll be very tired, dear; very tired."
"Think so?" said Fred, trying to be cool: for I knew it was only trying. "Think so?"
"I'm sure so," said I, worried and restless and vexed: not that I stirred.
"Well, then, love, good night," said Fred.
"Good night," said I, very short; though I felt as if my heart would break.
I lay and listened, with the door-key under my pillow; and my pillow well under my shoulders. That key I was determined should never leave me: I'd make sure of that, and I grasped it to be certain it was there. Then I listened again. He was not asleep; I was sure of that; though he lay as still as any baby, and tried to seem asleep. Very well, thought I; very well; you shall not outwake me: no—I'll watch like any owl. At least like any guardian spirit.
And to think that Fred—my own Frederick, with one heart between us, as he's so often said—could lie there; yes, by my very side, and have a secret and keep it from me—well, I did begin to think that dear Mamma was right; and I've heard her say she'd never trust dear Papa further than she could see him—not always that.
At last he slept.—No; he didn't. Well, I never thought he could have such art. But perhaps he suspected my thoughts; imagined I was watching him! When this entered my head, I determined to affect sleep myself; and so see which of us could do it the best.
So I settled myself and—again being sure of the key; yes, there it was—safe enough—and began to appear to go to sleep. In a little while, I had so beautifully deceived him that he was fast—fast as a church.
—It couldn't have been above five minutes, but I had dozed off; and woke with such a start!—Almost instinctively I placed my hand under the pillow; the key was safe.
"What's the matter, Lotty? Dreaming?"—said Fred; for I had either awakened him, or he was awake all the time. "What's it about?" he asked.
"Nothing in particular," said I, "good night, love; or you'll be too late for Mr. Truepenny."
At the word, I thought I heard Fred sigh—just gently sigh—and the sound went like a dagger through me!
And then what a dream I'd had: and it couldn't have lasted above three—certainly not five—minutes! What a dream! Such a confusion of things! I thought I still grasped the key, and it turned in my hand to a pistol! And then I thought I dropt it on the ground, and it went hopping along like a grasshopper, popping and going off as it went. Then I thought I was resolved Fred should not get up and go out—and then I suddenly found myself tying the sleeves of his shirt in double-knots, and then emptying the water-jug into both his boots! Then I thought I went through a churchyard, and saw that odious Truepenny—drest like a pantomime clown—digging a grave; and as he dug it, singing a song about spades being trumps. Then I thought Fred was suddenly by my side, and that dreadful Truepenny took up a shovelful of earth, and was about to throw it, with a laugh, in the face of Fred, when I—I tried to scream, or did scream, and awoke!
Oh! how I did wish we were well at home! And how I did lie—lie upon thorns and listen for him to go well to sleep, that I might creep out and learn everything of Josephine. And how I blamed myself that, before I came to bed, I didn't go and hear all she had to say!—But then I was in such a hurry to have Fred all safe, and the key in my own possession—safe under my pillow—and I thought he would so soon go to sleep, and he hadn't! Which made it plain to me that he had something on his mind: and that something—oh, how I did abominate that Mr. Truepenny. No; I thought to myself—as I lay awake, waiting for Fred to go off, that is, if he was going to sleep at all—no: Mr. Truepenny: you never enter my house. You never cross the threshold of the Flitch. A pretty friend indeed to take a man out—and that man newly married—to be shot like a sheep; and to leave a lonely, unprotected, broken-hearted—
The bitter thought was too much for me, I wept in good earnest; but cried so quietly—I was almost choked—for fear Fred, for he was not asleep, should hear me! Oh, and again and again I thought, if ever we do get home! What a home I'll make it! And still—and I was sure of it—still he was awake.
And then I thought, suppose he should not go to sleep at all. Suppose he should get up and—well, no matter; I was resolved: I'd get up with him. I'd go with him. I'd cling to him. I'd never leave him. I'd call assistance, constables—
And now it was broad daylight, and—yes, surely, he was asleep? I listened; and I couldn't be mistaken: no, I was sure he slept. And then I rose gently—very, very gently to look, and—yes,—he was in a deep sleep. His face—that beautiful face—was white, white and hushed and still as marble! Oh, how much I seemed to learn—how much more to live in that minute—looking, looking—and he—all the time as if there was some dreadful story under that deep stillness!
I rose quietly as possible; hardly breathing. But still he slept—I was sure of that. I took the key from under my pillow. Oh, that dreadful lock! It was old and rusty, and began to creak and squeak; and I holding my breath, and almost standing upon my tiptoes trying to turn the key. At last, with a grating noise the lock turned. I passed—he was still asleep. I opened the door; and was about to pass to Josephine's, when something whispered me, lock the door again. I did so; for I couldn't be too sure. So I locked the door—that casket-door, as I thought—for Fred lay sleeping.
Fortunately, Josephine's door was unlocked; though—I had not time to speak of it at the moment, not but that the thought struck me at the very instant—though how a young woman could go to bed without double-locking her door I couldn't understand, although on second thoughts perhaps she had left it open for me—and Josephine fast asleep. Fast! in fact, as I said, anybody—that is, any robber—might have come in and stripped everything, and she been none the wiser. At last, by nudging and shaking I woke her.
"Murder!" she half-cried; but I put my hand before her mouth.
"Silence! you foolish creature! You needn't cry out so! It's only"—
"La!" said the girl; "I was dreaming; and you did a little startle me. I thought it was true."
"Now, Josephine! what is it? I mean about your master"—
"It wasn't him I was dreaming on, Ma'am," cried the creature.
"I should think not, indeed," said I. "Dream of your master! Like your impudence! But what I want to know is—all, all you know."
"La! Ma'am!" cried the stupid girl, rubbing her eyes, and yawning frightfully.
"I mean that note you left on my dressing-table!"
"Oh!" she exclaimed, as though at last she was thoroughly awake. "Oh, ma'am, be sure you don't let master get up. Put your arms round his neck, if you almost choke him—but don't let him get up."
"Why not?" I cried.
"He's going to fight; with pistols. One of—that is, I've been told all about it; but not time enough to tell you. Master would have fought yesterday, only it was Sunday, so he went to church instead. Mr. Truepenny has come, like a friend, all the way from London, to see fair play; but don't you let him get up, Ma'am, pray don't"—
"Fight! And with whom?"
"Don't know exactly, Ma'am; but that doesn't matter. One may be as bad as another. But you're sure master's safe, for he was to go out early, as I heard?"
"I've locked the door; and he shall not stir. If he attempts it, I'll raise the house!" said I.
"Do, Ma'am," cried Josephine, "and I'll help you."
I returned to my apartment with new resolution. I unlocked the door; crept into the room, and without looking again locked it; taking out the key, and hugging it close. I stept softly towards the bed. Frederick was not there! I looked round—the sash was raised. He had escaped through the window.
All I know is, I gave a shriek and fell fainting upon the bed!