A cloud has fallen upon the little shop in New Street. Stephen Walker is restless and anxious, for he feels that something is going wrong. Carry has changed so much during the last three months that he cannot but notice it. Her bright colour has quite gone now, and only comes back in sudden starts and flushes. Her manner, too, has altered even more than her appearance. She, who used to be so lively and gay, who was always humming scraps of song over her work, has now become silent and abstracted. If she noticed that her father was watching her she would break out in a burst of fitful merriment, talking and laughing in a forced, unnatural way, which was even more painful than her silence. Stephen Walker was a long time before he arrived reluctantly at the conclusion that [104] there was something wrong with Carry. At first he tried hard to persuade himself that the change existed only in his own imagination—that she was a little poorly, perhaps, nothing more; but at last he could no longer deceive himself, there was evidently something mentally, or physically, altogether wrong with her. Very sadly the old man pondered over the matter, and wearied himself with conjectures as to what could be the cause. She had no bodily ill, and quite repudiated any suggestion he made to that effect. She was perfectly well, she said, and Stephen Walker at last came to the conclusion it must be upon her mind. It was evident that nothing could make her unhappy except some love affair; and if so, with whom could Carry be in love? When this question was once fairly raised in Stephen Walker's mind he set himself to watch; but it was a long time after he did so before he came to any conclusion upon the subject, still longer before he could make up his mind to speak to her about it. One day, however, when he came into the shop after a short absence on business, he found the gentleman he suspected leaning on the counter talking confidentially with [105] Carry. At the sight of her father she started and coloured painfully, while the gentleman rose hastily, saying,— “I have a holiday you see, Mr. Walker.”
Mr. Walker made some general answer and passed into the inner room. The gentleman left almost immediately; but Carry did not, as was her custom, come into the parlour, but remained in the shop all the afternoon. It was not until the shop was closed for the evening, and Carry had taken her work and sat down, that father and daughter were together alone. Even then Stephen Walker had difficulty in approaching the subject, for Carry seemed to feel instinctively what he wished to speak of, and endeavoured, by talking forcedly upon all sorts of topics, to keep him from approaching it. At last he took advantage of a momentary pause in her talk to begin.
“My dear Carry, you know very well that I love you dearly. I am a poor, nervous creature, my dear, but I cannot but see that you are not the same as you used to be.”
Carry, with a very pale face, laid down her work when her father commenced, and she now [106] interposed with a faint protest that she was quite well.
“My dear Carry, I am not quite sure that I would not rather know that you are not quite well. You may be, as you say, quite well bodily; that is, you may be free from any actual illness, but you are unquestionably changed, you are pale, and nervous, and out of spirits; it follows then that your illness must be mental. Now, my dear Carry, if you had a mother you would tell her, and she would advise you and talk to you as I cannot do. You are very unfortunately placed, dear—unfortunate in being so much alone, very unfortunate that the only person upon whom you can rely is a poor nervous man like myself. But do not think of this, Carry, only think that your old father loves you with all his heart, only think that your happiness is his only object in life, and open your heart to him, dear, as you would to a mother.”
Carry was crying now, kneeling at her father's knees.
“Can't you tell me, Carry?”
She shook her head.
[107]
“Perhaps I can guess, dear. I have noticed for months how often Mr. Bingham comes here, and I have seen you change colour when he comes in. Is it he, Carry? Do you love him, my child?”
Carry was still crying, but after a pause she said, very low,
“I promised not to tell you, father, but as you have guessed, I can speak. But please, please, do not let him see that you know. Yes, father, I do love Mr. Bingham, and he loves me. He has told me so, but he does not want anyone to know it, because he has no money of his own, and we must wait. He has a very rich uncle, a Captain Bradshaw, who lives in Lowndes Square, and who is going to leave Mr. Bingham a great deal of money, but he dares not offend him by marrying. He is very old, so we are going to wait. But I promised not to tell you about it, father. Please do not let him know.”
Stephen Walker was silent for a little time, and then said,
[108]
“I wish, Carry, I had known it before. I should have warned—no, not warned you, dear, but advised you against it before it was too late.
I do not like these long engagements, Carry. They seldom come to anything. I know the world better than you do, my child. I have not used my knowledge to much purpose as far as I myself am concerned, still I can see clearly enough in your case. I had rather it had been some young clerk, ay, Carry, or even an honest mechanic or small tradesman that had asked for you. Still, dear, I do not wish to blight your hopes, but do not build too much upon it; these things seldom come off.”
“Oh, father,” Carry said, “would you not like to see me a lady, in a house of my own, where you would always live with us, and have no more care and trouble? Oh, father, I have thought of that so much. And this, father, is quite, quite certain to come off.”
[109]
“Yes, my child, we always think so, and the disappointment is in proportion to the hope. No, Carry, a long engagement is always bad; but when the parties are in different stations of life the chances of its being broken off are tenfold. However, Carry, we will hope for the best. But be careful, my child, you know nothing of the world. Do not encourage him to be here too much. Neighbours will get to talk of it, and a good name is easily lost; and, although I know my little Carry too well not to be able to trust her as well, ay, and very much better, than myself, still, dear, you don't know the world and cannot be too careful. If you had only had a mother——”
And here Stephen Walker's warnings were put a stop to, for Carry's face, which had been bent down while he had been speaking, had become deadly white; her hand was pressed against her heart, and with a half sob, half cry, she leant forward; and her father, on stooping down, found that she was insensible. Very poignant were Stephen Walker's self-reproaches as he ran to get some water and endeavoured to bring her round.
“That is just like me,” he muttered to himself, “frightening the poor child, and telling her her love affair would come to nothing. As if I could not see that she worried enough about it without my making her worse. What an old fool I am, to be sure. And to think of her fainting, too—dear, dear.”
And so he wandered on, until, to his intense [110] relief, he saw her open her eyes. She looked round in a frightened way.
“There, there, my dear; don't worry yourself, Carry. It is all right now. I have been wrong to frighten you, Carry, very wrong, and I have no doubt it will all come right. Why shouldn't it? A man who has once fallen in love with my Carry would not be likely to draw back. No, no, indeed. I thought I was talking wisdom, Carry, and I was an old fool after all.”
Carry smiled feebly, and stroked her father's hair as he bent over her.
“I am better now, father, but I am not very strong. You are quite right in what you say, as you always are, dear, dear, old father. But oh, I wish, oh I wish you had spoken before.” Then, after a pause, she said, “How foolish of me to faint! But I am better now. Kiss me, father, I will go up to bed.”
After Carry had gone upstairs, Stephen Walker sat for a long time in the parlour. His thoughts were not pleasant.
“Poor child, poor child!” he said, “I would [111] have given all the little I have in the world to have saved her this. Why did she not fall in love with some one of her own station, some one who would have been proud of my bright, pretty Carry, who would have shown her to his friends with pleasure and pride? Carry would have been very happy in such a home as that. And now she must wait for years; and perhaps, after all, be deserted. For when the time comes friends will step in and dissuade him, and he will begin to think himself that he might choose a wife better suited to him than out of a tobacconist's shop. I hope he is not lying to her. He would, indeed, be a scoundrel who would lie to such an innocent child as Carry. But, at any rate, I will see if there is any Captain Bradshaw lives in Lowndes Square; and will find out, if I can, if he is really Mr. Bingham's uncle. If so, I shall feel more comfortable, and can wait. Perhaps, after waiting a bit, Carry too may get tired of it, and may not take it to heart if it is broken off at last. So, perhaps, no very great harm may come of it. But I am sorry, I am very sorry.”
If Stephen Walker could have looked into the room where Carry was lying on the bed, crying passionately, he would have been even more sorry than he was. For the next two or three days [112] after this talk Stephen Walker was but little at home; for, having found out by a Directory Captain Bradshaw's address in Lowndes Square, he watched there for hours, until, on the third evening, he saw Fred Bingham enter. Having thus, found out that his story was true so far, he went home more satisfied.
There was another who was watching Carry as closely and as anxiously as did her father. She had been very restless lately, and had very often gone into Mrs. Holl's for a chat. Mrs. Holl was frequently out, and even when she was at home the conversation was principally between Carry and the cripple lad. To him Carry was as an angel of light. He almost worshipped her, and she knew it. Carry liked being admired, it was her nature; she turned as naturally for admiration as a flower for light. Besides, she pitied James. Had he been other than he was, a helpless cripple, Carry might have tossed her head a little loftily at the............