The Eve of the Wedding.
That same evening Eve Pelly was in the garden with Mrs Glaire—the old familiar garden where she had spent so many happy hours, while now she was sad with a sadness that made the tears rise and fill her eyes.
The old place, with its abundant flowers, its roses climbing the old red-brick wall, the well-shaven lawn, with its quaint rustic vases and flower-beds, and the seats where she had read and worked since a child. It was her dear old home, and she was not going to leave it, but all the same, on this the eve of her marriage, it seemed to her that the end had come, and that she was about to bid it all farewell.
It had been an anxious day, for many friends had called, and present after present had been brought, all of which, in spite of herself, she had received with tears, and gladly escaped afterwards to the solitude of her own room.
Even the workmen had clubbed together, and, in spite of past hard times, bought a handsome silver teapot, which came “With the men’s dooty to Miss Eve.”
For they recalled her sweet gentle face, patiently watching by or bringing flowers to many a sick wife or child; and it was said that every man in the works, with all his belongings, was to be at the church next morning.
Mrs Glaire was with Eve, but at last she said she would go in, the latter pleading that she would like to stay a little longer in the soft glow of the evening sun; and so it happened that at last she was left, and feeling glad at heart that Richard had been away all day, she sat down alone to think.
It was so strange she could hardly realise it, and yet this was the last day, and to-morrow she would be Richard’s wife.
The warm glow of the setting sun was around her, but a deadly pallor was upon her face, and she began to tremble.
“Am I going to be ill?” she asked herself; and then, making an effort, she tried to shake off the feeling.