The crowd of ragged people, who always cluster to
witness what they may of an aristocratic wedding,
broke into audible admiration of the bride’s
beauty and the bridegroom’s manliness, and uttered
prayers and ejaculations (possibly paid for in alms)
for the happiness of both. If the most favorable
of earthly conditions could make them happy, they
had every prospect of it. They were going to
live on their abundance in one of those stately and
delightful English homes, such as no other people ever
created or inherited, a hall set far and safe within
its own private grounds, and surrounded with venerable
trees, shaven lawns, rich shrubbery, and trimmest
pathways, the whole so artfully contrived and tended
that summer rendered it a paradise, and even winter
would hardly disrobe it of its beauty; and all this
fair property seemed more exclusively and inalienably
their own, because of its descent through many forefathers,
each of whom had added an improvement or a charm,
and thus transmitted it with a stronger stamp of rightful
possession to his heir. And is it possible, after
all, that there may be a flaw in the title-deeds?
Is, or is not, the system wrong that gives one married
pair so immense a superfluity of luxurious home, and
shuts out a million others from any home whatever?
One day or another, safe as they deem themselves,
and safe as the hereditary temper of the people really
tends to make them, the gentlemen of England will
be compelled to face this question.
* * * *
*
PAUL BLECKER.
PART III.
[Conclusion.]
“Skin cool, damp. Pha! pha! I thought
that camphor and morphine last night would cure you.
Always good for sudden attacks.”
The little woman’s stumpy white fingers were
very motherly, touching Grey’s forehead.
“I promised Doctor Blecker you would see him
in half an hour.”
“It is not best,” the girl said, standing
up, leaning against the mantel-shelf.
“It is best. Yes. You say you will
not consent to the marriage: are going with me
to-night. So, so. I ask no questions.
No, child. Hush!”—with a certain
dignity. “I want no explanations. Sarah
Sheppard’s rough, maybe; but she keeps her own
privacy, and regards that of others. But you must
see him. He is your best friend, if nothing more.
A woman cannot be wrong, when she acts in that way
from the inherent truth of things. That was my
mother’s rule. In half an hour,”—putting
her forefinger on Grey’s temple, and pursing
her mouth. “Pulse low. Sharp seven
the train goes. I’ll bring a bottle of
nitre in my bag,”—and she bustled
out.