“Ay, so she was, ten year and more, I dare say,” answered Dulcibella.
“She is very fond of it—too fond to give it to me now; but she says, kind aunt, she has left it to me in her will. And oh! Dulcibella, I feel so lonely.”
“Lonely! why should you, darling, wi’ a fine handsome gentleman to your husband, that will be squire o’ Wyvern—think o’ that—squire o’ Wyvern, and that’s a greater man than many a lord in Parliament; and he’s good-natured, never a hard word or a skew look, always the same quiet way wi’ him. Hoot, miss! ye mustn’t be talkin’ that way. Think o’ the little baby that’s a-comin’. Ye won’t know yourself for joy when ye see his face, please God, and I’m a-longin’ to show him to ye.”
“You good old Dulcibella,” said the young lady, and her eyes filled with tears as she smiled. “But poor mamma died when I was born, and oh, Dulcibella, do you think I shall ever see the face of the poor little thing? Oh! wouldn’t it be sad! wouldn’t it be sad!”
“Ye’re not to be talkin’ that nonsense, darling; ’tis sinful, wi’ all that God has given you, a comfortable house over your head, and enough to eat, and good friends, and a fine, handsome husband that’s kind to you, and a blessed little child a-comin’ to make every minute pleasant to all that’s in the house. Why, ’tis a sin to be frettin’ like that, and as for this thing or that thing, or being afeard, why, everyone’s afeard, if they’d let themselves, and not one in a thousand comes by any harm; and ’tis sinful, I tell ye, for ye know well ye’re in the hands o’ the good God that’s took care o’ ye till now, and took ye out o’ the little nursery o’ Wyvern Vicarage, when ye weren’t the length o’ my arm, and not a friend near but poor, foolish, old Dulcibella, that did not know where to turn. And your aunt, that only went out as poor as your darling mamma, brought home well again from t’other end o’ the world, and well to do, your own loving kith and kin, and good friends raised up on every side, and the old squire, Harry o’ Wyvern, although he be a bit angered for a while he’s another good friend, that will be sure to make it up, whatever it is came between him and Master Charles. Hot blood’s not the worst blood; better a blow in haste and a shake hands after than a smile at the lips and no goodwill wi’ it. I tell you, they’re not the worst, they hotheaded, hard-fisted, outspoken folk; and I’ll never forget that day to him, when he brought you home that had no home, and me that was thinkin’ o’ nout but the workhouse. So do or say what he will, God bless him for that day, say I, for ’twas an angel’s part he did,” said old Dulcibella.
“So I feel, God knows; so I feel,” said Alice, “and I hope it may all be made up; I’m sure it will; and, oh! Dulcibella, I have been the cause of so much sorrow and bitterness!”
She stopped suddenly, her eyes full of tears; but she restrained them.
“That’s the way ye’ll always be talking. I’d like to know where they’d be without you. Every man that marries will have care, more or less; ’tis the will o’ God; and if he hadn’t he’d never think o’ Him; and ’tis a short life at the longest, and a sore pilgrimage at the best. So what He pleases to lay on us we must even bear wi’ a patient heart, if we can’t wi’ a cheerful; for wi’ his blessin’ ’twill all end well.”
“Amen,” said Alice, with a cheerier smile but a load still at her heart; “I hope so, my good old Dulcibella. What should I do without you? Wait! hush! Is that a noise outside? No; I thought I heard a horse’s tread, but there’s nothing. It’s too late now; there’s no chance of him tonight. Do you think, Dulcibella, there is any chance?”
“Well, no, my dear; it’s gettin’ on too late—a deal too late; no, no, we must even put that clean out of our heads. Ye’ll not get a wink o’ sleep if you be listening for him. Well I know them fidgets, and many a time I lay on my hot ear—now this side, now that, listening, till I could count the veins o’ my head beating like a watch, and myself only wider and wider awake every hour, and more fool I; and well and hearty home wi’ him, time enough, and not a minute sooner for all my watching. And mind ye, what I often told ye when ye were a wee thing, and ye’ll find it true to the end o’ your days—a watch-pot never boils.”
Alice laughed gently.
“I believe you are right, Dulcibella. No, he won’t come tonight. It was only a chance, and I might have known. But, perhaps, tomorrow? Don’t you think tomorrow?”
“Very like, like enough, tomorrow—daylight, mayhap to breakfast—why not?” she answered.
“Well, I do think he may; he said, perhaps tonight, and I know, I’m sure he’ll think how his poor wife is watching and longing to see him; and, as you advise, I’ll put that quite out of my head; he has so many things to look after, and he only said perhaps; and you think in the morning. Well, I won’t let myself think so, it would be too delightful; I won’t think it. But it can’t be many days, I’m sure—and—I won’t keep you up any longer, dear old Dulcibella. I’ve been very selfish. So, good night.”
And
