Carry was in unusually low spirits. She had that morning received a letter from Fred Bingham, written from the country. In it he told her that he feared he should be detained three weeks, but that he would make arrangements for the marriage to take place immediately he returned; but that it must be done quietly before a registrar. Carry quite believed that it would be as he said, still she was sick and low at the thought that another month of this wearying deception and secrecy must take place. After the shop was closed for the night, she took a piece of work as usual, but finding that it was in vain to endeavour to keep her attention fixed, and that now and then a tear would fall upon it, she put her work down and took up the “Times,” not for the sake of reading it, but to screen her face from her father. [133]
Stephen Walker was smoking his pipe quietly, and was thinking sadly to himself how greatly Carry had changed in the three months, when he was startled by a sharp cry of pain from her, and looking up saw the paper fall from her hands. She had risen to her feet, her eyes stared wildly, and her face was deadly pale. For a moment she stood immoveable, then she tottered, and with a low gasping cry sank back upon the seat, and Stephen Walker was just in time to support her as she fainted. Terribly alarmed at this sudden attack, her father laid her upon the little sofa, and hurried to fetch water to sprinkle her forehead, but it was a long time before there were any signs of returning animation. Then she opened her eyes and looked round wildly, then with a shuddering sigh closed them again, and remained for some time without speaking. At last, in answer to her father's earnest entreaties to speak, she rose into a sitting position, and said, faintly,—
“I am better again now, father; I will go up to bed.”
She was so weak, however, that she had to accept her father's assistance, and having seen [134] her to her door, the old man returned sadly downstairs.
“Poor child, poor child!” he said to himself, as he sat down again and mechanically refilled his pipe, “what a change! She is evidently unhappy, evidently begins to doubt him already. I am afraid he is a rascal; if so, the sooner she knows it the better. What ought I to do?” and he thought deeply for a while. “Yes, that is the only plan; next time he comes I will follow him out and talk to him myself. I will tell him that I can see that he is here too often for Carry's peace of mind. I will ask him as a man to keep away altogether if he is only playing with my child's affections. If he repeats to me what he has told her, I will ask him at any rate to stay away until he is in a position to make her his wife. In the meantime, if I could but get her away from him, the change would strengthen her. Why should I not?” he went on more briskly. [135] “I have two or three hundred pounds at the bank, why should I not put some one in charge of the shop and go away for a month to the seaside? It would be the very thing for her. Yes, yes, if I had Carry all to myself at the seaside, I should soon get her round again. I wish I had thought of it before. I will see about getting some one to-morrow. I will take Carry to a doctor, too; he shall give her some tonics.”
Stephen Walker went up to bed and felt quite relieved at the thoughts of his plans for Carry's benefit. He woke up, however, in the night with a vague idea that some one had been kissing and crying over him. As he fairly roused himself and sat up, he fancied he heard his door close softly, but was not sure that it was not imagination. He spoke, and there was no answer, and after a thought of the pleasant surprise he had in store for Carry in the morning, he fell asleep again. In the morning when Stephen Walker came downstairs he found that, contrary to custom, he was the first up.
“Poor child,” he said to himself, “she is tired, I dare say, after fainting last night. Well, a good long sleep will do her good,” and so Stephen Walker bustled about, folded the newspapers, and served the customers, sending round Tom Holl before he started on his rounds, to ask his mother to come in for half-an-hour, if she [136] could spare time. Mrs. Holl soon came round, laid and lit the fire, and prepared breakfast. It was by this time half-past nine, and the regular customers were all served.
“Now, Mrs. Holl, I will go up and call Carry. How astonished she will be when I tell her its half-past nine, and breakfast's ready!”
Stephen Walker was away two or three minutes and then returned, looking white and scared. He sat down in a chair, trembling in every limb.
“What is the matter, Mr. Walker?”
“I don't know, Mrs. Holl; I have knocked, and knocked, and I cannot make her hear.”
“I dare say she's sleeping sound,” Mrs. Holl said; “she's not been looking well of late; shall I go up and wake her?”
Stephen Walker made a gesture of assent, and Mrs. Holl went upstairs to Carry's room. She knocked at first gently, and then more loudly. There was no answer. Mrs. Holl was not a nervous woman, but she felt frightened—she did not know of what. The fear of Stephen Walker had infected her, and this strange silence made her as timid as he had been. She tried the handle to see if the door was locked. It was [137] not; the door yielded to her touch, but it was with a nervous trembling that Mrs. Holl pushed the door open, and entered. What she had expected to see—what she was afraid of—she knew not, but no sight could have affected her so much, not even the sight of the girl dead in her bed, as did that deserted room, that unused bed, that letter lying upon the table. Mrs. Holl saw the truth at once, and as she thought of Carry, thought of the old man downstairs, she sat down, and began to cry. Presently she heard a step on the stairs. What should she say? how should she break it to him? She hurried out and met him outside the door.
“Don't go in, don't go in; come downstairs, and I will tell you all about it.”
“Is she——?”
He did not finish the question—indeed he had scarcely uttered the words, but Mrs. Holl guessed them by the movement of his lips.
“No, she's not dead; she's not, indeed. Please, go down——”
But Stephen Walker pushed past her, and stood in the empty room. A low cry broke from him, then his eye caught the letter on the table; [138] it was addressed to himself. He could not stand to read it; he sank down in a chair. He opened the letter with trembling hands, but the trembling ceased, and his figure seemed to stiffen into stone as he read on—
“Father, father, what can I say to you—how can I write it? He has married another; I saw it in the paper this evening; yet he promised, promised over and over again to marry me. Only this morning I had a letter from him saying he would marry me in ............