I went forth into the wilderness, and found him sitting at the root of a huge chestnut, with his clasped hands drooping idly down between his knees, and gazing steadfastly on the earth.
“Zana,” he said, reaching forth his hand, “sit down here, and tell me all about it. What have I been saying? Have I been very cross, darling?”
His kindness went to my heart. I sat down upon a curved root of the tree, and leaned softly against him.
“Yes, a little cross, but not half so much as I deserved,” I said, meekly. “But tell me now, Mr. Turner, what is this marriage, what is there so dreadful about it?”
“Nothing, child—nothing,” he answered, with forced cheerfulness. “I dare say it is very pleasant—very pleasant indeed to some people. I know of persons who are very fond of weddings, quite charmed with them; but for my part a funeral seems more the thing—there is some certainty about that. It settles a man, leaves him alone, provides for him.”
“I never saw a wedding,” said I, thoughtfully, “and but one funeral. That was very sad, Mr. Turner; if a wedding is like that, don’t be married—it is dreadful! Are weddings like that funeral ever?”
“I have seen weddings a great deal more solemn,” he answered, still gazing on the ground. “One that seemed but the mockery of a funeral, and ended in one!”
“What one was that?” I questioned, while a cold chill crept mysteriously through my veins.
“It was Lord Clare’s wedding that I was thinking of,” he answered, looking up, “and that happened three days before I found you on his door-step.”
I looked fearfully around. It seemed as if a funeral train were creeping through the woods—the ghost of some procession that lived in my memory, yet would not give itself forth.