"It is of no consequence, Mrs. McQuirter; I'm willing to overlook," and Judith endeavoured to slide past in the narrow hallway, but the little ones, with faces damp and sticky, and threatening damage to any article of apparel which might rub against them in passing, blocked the way.
"And it's good of you to say so much, miss; and it does credit to Mr. Bunce's choice. And oh, Miss! you'll remember, will you not? I'm a lone widdy, and the mother of six! And it's hoping you'll have a fine family of your own some day," which made Judith blush. "And you won't be for allowing Mr. Bunce to change his lodging, and all along of a few thoughtless words, as I'm truly sorry for the saying on. You won't now? Will'e, miss? Like a dear."
"I have told you, already, Mrs. McQuirter, I shall overlook the offence. Mr. Bunce is too ill to think of moving. He feels quite faint after the disturbance you caused him, and he needs nourishment. You had better warm him a cupful of that beef-tea I brought. Warm it in a saucepan, but don't let it boil; and send up a few sippets of dry toast along with it. The sooner you can let him have it the better." And having prescribed this penance to the spirit-broken mother of six, she got away.
It was near the end of Lent before the secret of the engagement was divulged, though the wedding was to be immediately after Easter; but then a storm of ridicule arose which could not but offend those most interested. Judith's own family were as provokingly sarcastic as any one in the churches of St. Silas or St. Wittikind, and that is saying much. It became clear to the young couple that they must leave the city; so Dionysius resigned his curacy and accepted the small missionary parish of St. Euphrase. The emoluments there were less than he had enjoyed in the city, but his wife was possessed of a modest competency, on which in that sequestered place, they contrived to live in comfort and respect.
If the taste in which Judith had endeavoured to rejuvenate her appearance was doubtful, the acquisition of a spouse had still had the best influence in softening and sweetening her nature, and her gratitude and devotion to the man who had looked on her in her loneliness were pleasant to see. For him, it was only after marriage and the worship which it brought him at his own fireside, that it began to dawn on Mr. Bunce what a very superior man he must surely be, and he felt beholden to his helpmate for making the discovery. So Mahomet no doubt, felt to the elderly Kadijah, his first wife, the earliest of his converts, and the first to recognize him as a prophet. In after years he married women younger and more beautiful, but none ever held a place so high in his affection as the wealthy widow who had married him in his poverty and youth.
CHAPTER XII.
[A GARDEN TEA].
It was on the same afternoon as that referred to, previous to the long digression in the last chapter, but perhaps a trifle earlier, though the torrid glare of mid-day had passed, and the cool shadows below the trees had begun to creep eastward on the shaven lawn. The air was full of warmth and sunshine, with just stir enough to move the aspen leaves upon the tree, and scatter more faint and widely the scent of roses beyond the alleys, where it hung in drowsy sweetness, mingling with the droning of bees and inviting to mid-day sleep, that crowning deliciousness of summer weather.
The Misses Stanley were in their grounds, and they had friends. They were in their grounds, that is to say in a shady corner of the lawn by the house, where three or four grand hemlocks, survivors of the forest, spread out umbrageous arms over a glimmering arcade of gloom, where never sunbeam stole, and the shady air was fresh with the fragrant breath of resins drawn from the upper branches by the sun. There, lounging on cane chairs and garden seats, they plied their fans calmly, and chatted, but not too much or loud, in sociable repose. It was early in July, when everything is green and fresh and vigorous--bud, bloom, and spray instinct with brimming life, and not a yellowing leaf to tell of memories or regret, all hope and promise and delight in the flowery present and the fruitful days to come. Great butterflies were tumbling in the brightness, and there was a low continuous murmur in the grass from the thousand living things too small to be separately or distinctly heard; and ever and anon from around the banks of shrubs would come the gurgling laughter of youthful voices, so lightsome in its freedom from care and adult emotion.
There were six of them, those youthful ones, whose merry voices disturbed the slumbrous heat, walking or running, heedless alike of shade and sunshine, their hands full of roses. Muriel was one of them, the ladies' niece, and Tilly Martindale, Miss Matilda's goddaughter, and Betsey Bunce, a niece of the rector, and so a sort of cousin to the family. There was Gerald Herkimer, Ralph's only child, whose mother Martha was sitting with the ladies in the shade, and Randolph Jordan, the son of Matilda's friend Amelia who was sitting by her at that moment. And, last, there was Pierre Bruneau, a black-eyed habitant boy, the son of Jean, who managed the farm. He had been working in the garden, and seeing Muriel, had found some small service to render her, and had lingered near, unconscious of the sidelong glances of her companions. She had given him her flowers to carry and bade him bring them to the house, and he, intoxicated with their fragrance, or rather, perhaps, at being permitted to carry them for his mistress when the young gentlemen were by, joined gaily in the general laughter, and even ventured to put in a jest in his queer French-English, to the amusement and placation of the not over-well pleased company.