Lady William made no reply. To have her mind so thrown back upon that wonderful tragic moment of her life: to think of herself, the bewildered romantic girl, with all the wonderful tales poured into her ear by the flatterer by her side—that flatterer who was not the silent, disturbed bridegroom who himself said so little to explain the hot haste, the desperation of the strange wedding—was of itself painful enough and exciting. She had herself broached the subject to her brother when the question opened up by Mrs. Swinford had burst upon her, but she had not then entered into it so fully as now, and her mind was shaken by all those recollections. She seemed to see the shabby old church already, even so long ago, an anachronism among churches, with its heavy pulpit and pews and small round-headed windows, and the old clergyman with his white beard, and the complete absence of all those prettinesses with which a girl’s imagination surrounds her bridal—prettinesses, however, made up for by the thrilling romance which, when the moment came, had begun to yield a little to the natural pain of the position. She remembered with what a start of alarm she had found herself consigned to the husband of whom she knew so little, who was so little like the romantic hero of such a marriage, and who—as she only began to see when the step was irrevocable—showed so little of any sentiment for her which could justify the impetuous impatience of the proceedings. She remembered the awful sensation in her mind when she looked back from the window of the railway carriage upon her father’s smiling, complacent old face, enchanted by the consciousness that his daughter was now Lady William, sister-in-law to the Marquis of Portcullis, and on the mocking smile and exaggerated courtesies of Artémise: and felt everything she loved sliding from her, and nothing left to her but the saturnine countenance opposite—the almost strange man, who if he loved her hotly had, as yet at least, shown no signs of it to herself. She did not hear her brother’s voice speaking to her in the heat and hurry of her thoughts. Oh, what recollections were these! So much more real than anything that occurred to her now, so much more potent in their terror and excitement than anything that could happen. She had known nothing in all her experience, read nothing, so tragical and terrible as the feelings of that poor little bride of nineteen, as she woke up from her romantic dream, and saw her father’s foolish old face so fresh and ruddy, so innocent and unconscious, just before it finally dropped out of sight to be seen no more. Perhaps it was her brother’s question, though she was scarcely aware that she heard it, how could my father be such a fool? that gave the impression of foolishness, of strange, cheerful imbecility to her last view of that rosy old face.
‘I repeat, Emily,’ said the Rector, with a little heat, ‘how could my father be such a fool? A girl of your age, of course, could not be expected to think of such things—but my father!—And I suppose he knew that the man you married was not—a model of every virtue.’
‘He was Mab’s father, James, and he was at least quite honourable, so far as I was concerned; he took no advantage—in respect to me.’
‘He could scarcely have been such a brute as that,’ the Rector said. ‘Well, I’ll go, Emily. To-morrow I’ll go to town and see if I can bring back all the papers square. Hush, what is that? Who is Mab talking to? We’ve done our talk, however, and it’s no matter being interrupted now.’
‘Good morning, Lord William,’ Mab’s voice was heard saying, perhaps a little louder than was necessary, to give her uncle the warning she had promised.
Lady William started violently at the sound of the name. She put her hand upon her breast where her heart had begun to beat loudly. ‘All those old recollections have upset my nerves,’ she said, with a little piteous smile. ‘Forgive me, James; it is the young man that Mab told you of, the cousin with the same name.’
‘Poor Emily!’ he said, taking her hand in both of his. ‘You have, I fear, no pleasant memories connected with it: but why, then, in the name of heaven, or the other place perhaps——’
‘The other place,’ she said, bursting into a faint hysterical laugh. ‘But wait a moment, the boy is coming in.’
‘I thought you were going away this morning,’ said Mab, evidently leading the way into the house. ‘You need not think of shaking hands, for I am always muddy when I am working in the garden. Yes, I do a great deal of work in the garden—indeed, I’m the gardener. Patty’s father gives me a hand for the heavier things, but do you imagine I would trust any one else with my flowers? Ah, it’s a little too early, but if you came here in June, then you should see! It’s not very big, to be sure. Mr. Leo has a great deal more space at the Hall, and I don’t know how many men, but——’ Mab said, ending abruptly with a little grimace (which, of course, could not be seen indoors) which said more than words.
‘I daresay it’s great fun working in the garden,’ said Lord Will, with a very serious face.