At last, Doctor M—— mounted the pulpit, the hymn was finished, and with a rustle of expectation the audience settled themselves in their seats then—then the individual who engrossed Kate's every thought, turned to face the preacher, and leaning his arm on the back of the pew, revealed his well-known profile, and ended her uncertainty.
Doctor M—— preached well, and Egerton listened attentively, but the sound of his voice scarce reached Kate's ears. In her quiet nook, she gazed uninterruptedly on the face so often seen in her sleeping and waking visions, at last, after so much of trial and suffering, restored to her—the vague unacknowledged hope that had woven one golden thread through her dreams of the future, where they, in sober earnest, about to be accomplished? How she longed to hear his voice, as if at its first sound the past would return to her, as it was when they had parted. It was strange how he had twined himself round her heart—he from whom she had parted without much of pain; but now indissolubly linked with all that was brightest and best in her life, all that she had loved and lost. Sorrow had revealed his heart to hers, and the light of memory had shown her the true meaning of those silent indications of bitter regret with which he had left her. And now he looked older, darker, graver—calm thought had deepened the expression of his eyes, and imparted a certain dignity to his brow, and Kate felt he was no longer the gay, careless soldier she had dared to lecture. There was a repose that bespoke strength even in his attitude, and she longed to meet his eye, yet shrank from it with fevered anticipation. Still he listened with grave, quiet, attention to the eloquent reasoning of the preacher—and Kate grew restless, and fearful that he would not see her; she calculated the chances of their meeting, when the congregation was dispersing, and thought it could not possibly fail to occur; but the very doubt filled her with terror; if they did not meet now, months, years might pass over before their dissimilar roads in life would again cross! and even if he should remember, or enquire for her, who was there who could give him a clue to her whereabouts; but the congregation was bending to receive the benediction, and the decisive moment arrived. Colonel Egerton, with a bow of acknowledgment to the owner of the seat, in which he had been placed, rose, and gazing abstractedly over the crowd, above which his tall figure rose proudly—moved down the aisle; the pressure compelled him to stop a moment by the door of Mr. Wilson's pew, but the large pillar interposed itself between Kate and the recognising glance, for which she so yearned. Mrs. Jorrocks never was so slow in her movements—she never leant so heavily before on Kate's slight arm, all quivering with the wild beating of her heart; still they were but a few steps behind him—if he would only turn his head! but no; he dreamt not of the imprisoned spirit, so passionately yearning to catch one glance from eyes, through which he gazed so listlessly! They were in the door-way, and freed from the crowd, Colonel Egerton paused a moment, as if to decide on his movements—put on his hat, and turning to the right, walked away with a quick, firm, soldierly step—away—out of sight—gone!
There was talk of Doctor M——'s wonderful sermon, as they wended their way home—of how he had finally and utterly annihilated the Pope; but Kate heard no sound, save a sad echo in her heart repeating—"gone—gone."
Vain would it be to describe the anguish with which she threw herself on her bed, when free and alone, and gave herself up to an agony of hysteric sobs. Was it a dark fate hanging over her, ever to catch glimpses of happiness, and there to lose them? Why need she hope or struggle any more—all she longed for, was darkness and silence—never, never again might she be as she was; when such a trifle had debarred her from so bright a meeting, dare she hope the insuperable barrier of distance would ever be removed? She could not rouse herself from this paroxysm—the buoyancy of her spirit seemed, at last, worn out; and head and heart alike aching, she lay in the stillness of exhaustion, across her bed, when the servant came to summon her to dinner.
"I think Mrs. Tom have sent me a bad bargain after all," was Mrs. Jorrocks's observation, on receiving an account of Miss Vernon's indisposition. "I see I'll have to pay my forty pounds a year for the nursetending of her—she looked like a ghost this week, and didn't mind a word she was reading of—but it's always the way—new brooms."
"Well I'm sure, mother, it's only the heat at church—she will be better to-morrow."
"She need'nt go to church, if she don't like to."
Kate only asked for quiet, and her own room, unmolested, for a few days—this was permitted her; and there she lay, through the long, weary, dark hours, brooding over the past, sometimes struggling with nature's repugnance to depression; but for awhile careless and indifferent to all without; then she strove to rally her scattered forces, to remember that Winter was soon to return.
"And until that hope too is gone, I will not despair—God is so good, and wise—He sees I have had so much sorrow—He will send me joy, sooner or later—yes; I will hope still."