“They are always sad—saddest when they seem to be merriest. Poor things! they are trying hard to be merry now; but they sound very sad to me—sadder than usual, somehow.”
The girl knocked at the door. Mary half opened it, and the news shot in—“'Tis for Squire Bassett; he is bringing of his bride home to Highmore to-day.”
“Mr. Bassett—married—that is sudden. Who could he find to marry him?” There was no reply. The house-maid had flown off to circulate the news, and Mary Wells was supporting herself by clutching the door, sick with the sudden blow.
Close as she was, her distress could not have escaped another woman's eye, but Lady Bassett never looked at her. After the first surprise she had gone into a reverie, and was conjuring up the future to the sound of those church-bells. She requested Mary to go and tell Sir Charles; but she did not lift her head, even to give this order.
Mary crept away, and knocked at Sir Charles's dressing-room.
“Come in,” said Sir Charles, thinking, of course, it was his valet.
Mary Wells just opened the door and held it ajar. “My lady bids me tell you, sir, the bells are ringing for Mr. Bassett; he's married, and brings her home tonight.”
A dead silence marked the effect of this announcement on Sir Charles. Mary Wells waited.
“May Heaven's curse light on that marriage, and no child of theirs ever take my place in this house!”
“A-a-men!” said Mary Wells.