"The young lord of the manor's," answered the driver, "Did you see the lady in it?"
"No."
"I caught a glimpse of her dress," said the driver. "I'll warrant she's a dashing one! The young squire, they say, has a capital taste!" Theodore looked after the carriage. There was nothing but the road. The vehicle drove at a rapid pace, and was soon out of sight. Theodore's heart turned sick.
The moment the coach stopped he alighted, and with a misgiving mind he stood at the door which had often admitted him to his Rosalie. It was opened by a domestic whom he had never seen before. "Was Miss Wilford within?" "No." "When would she return?" "Never. She had gone that morning to London to be married!" Theodore made no further inquiries, neither did he offer to go, but stood glaring upon the man more like a spectre than a human being.
"Any thing more?" said the man retreating into the house, and gradually closing the door, through which now only a portion of his face could be seen. "Any thing more?" Theodore made no reply: in fact he had lost all consciousness. At last, the shutting of the door, which half from panic, half from anger the man pushed violently to, aroused him. "I shall knock at you no more!" said he, and departed, pressing his heart with his hand, and moving his limbs as if he cared not how, or whither they bore him. A gate suddenly stopped his progress; 'twas the entrance to the green lane. He stepped over the stile—he was on the spot where he had parted last from Rosalie—where she had flung her arms about his neck, and wept upon it. His heart began to melt, for the first time since he had received her letter: a sense of suffocation came over him, till he felt as if he would choke. The name of Rosalie was on his tongue: twice he attempted to articulate it, but could not. At last it got vent in a convulsive sob, which was followed by a torrent of tears. He threw himself upon the ground—he wept on—he made no effort to check the flood, but let it flow till forgetfulness stopped it.
He rose with a sensation of intense cold.
'Twas morning! He had slept! "Would he had slept on!" He turned from the sun, at it rose without a cloud, upon the wedding morn of Rosalie. 'Twas Thursday. He repassed the stile; and, in a few minutes, was on his road to London, which he entered about eleven o'clock at night, and straight proceeded to his friend's. They were gone to bed.
"Give me a light," said Theodore, "I'll go to bed."
"Your bed is occupied, sir," replied his servant.
"Is it?" said Theodore; "Well, I can sleep upon the carpet." He turned into the parlor, drew a chair towards the table, upon which the servant had placed a light, and sat down. All was quiet for a time. Presently he heard a foot upon the stair; it was his friend's who was descending, and now entered the parlor.