Everything had gone so differently from the way she had planned. Pierce was to marry Kate Wilton, and be rich and happy ever afterwards; she intended to be what she called a nice, little, old maiden aunt, to pet and tend all her brother’s children, for, of course, Kate and Pierce would have her to live with them; but it was all over—Kate had gone, no one knew where; Pierce, who had always loved her so tenderly, scarcely ever spoke to her as he used. He was quiet, grave, and civil, but never walked up and down the garden with his arm round her waist, laughing and joking with her, and talking about the prince who was to come some day to carry her off to his palace. It was all misery and wretchedness.
“I’m sure nobody could have been so ill and suffered so much before,” she said, “and I’m growing so white, and thin, and ugly, and old looking, and I’m sure I shall have to go about with a crutch; and it’s so lonely with Pierce always going out to see old women and old men who are not half so bad as I am; and I wish I was dead! Oh, dear, oh, oh, dear, I wonder whether it hurts much to die. If it does, I’ll ask Pierce to give me some laudanum to put me out of my misery, and—Oh, who’s that?”
A carriage had drawn up at the gate, and she leaned forward to see.
“Mrs Wilton’s carriage,” she said, quickly growing interested, “and poor Pierce out. Oh, dear, how vexatious it is, when he wants patients so badly! I wonder who’s ill now. It can’t be that little wretch, because I saw him ride by an hour ago, and stare at the place; and it can’t be Mr Wilton, because he always goes over to Dixter market on Fridays. It must be Mrs Wilton herself.”
“If you please, miss, here’s Missus Wilton,” said the tall, gawky girl, just emancipated from the village schools to be Jenny’s maid-of-all-work and nurse, and the lady in question entered with her village basket upon her arm.
“Ah! my dear child!” she cried, bustling across the room, putting her basket on the table, and then bobbing down to kiss Jenny, who sat up, frowning and stiff. “No, no, don’t get up.”
“I was not going to, Mrs Wilton,” said Jenny, coldly; “I can’t.”
“Think of that, now,” cried the visitor, drawing a chair forward, and carefully spreading her silks and furs as she sat down; “and I’ve been so dreadfully unneighbourly in not coming to see you, though I did not know you had been so bad as this. You see, I’ve had such troubles of my own to attend to that I couldn’t think of anything else; but it all came to me to-day that I had neglected you shamefully, and so I said to myself, I’d come over at once, as Mr Wilton and my son were both out, and bring you a bit of chicken, and a bottle of wine, and the very last bunch of grapes before it got too mouldy in the vinery, and here I am.”
“Yes, Mrs Wilton,” said Jenny, stiffly; “but if you please, I am not one of the poor people of the parish.”
“Why, no, my dear, of course not; but whatever put that in your head?”