“What a fool the girl is to cling to that dust and ashes! Married, indeed! She shall be the wife of someone besides a ghost, or I lose my guess.”
“What a crotchety idea!” he said, as he caught my eye. “I never thought Eleanor would be so whimsical. She ought to have someone to exert a healthy influence over her, or she will injure herself—she surely will.”
“You ought to attempt to teach her a more practical view of life’s misfortunes. I’m afraid, however, you’ll find her a stupid pupil.”
His eye flashed into mine a triumphant gleam.
“ ‘Perseverance conquers all obstacles,’ the wise ones say; and I’m a persevering man, you know, Richard.”
He took up his cap and lounged out into the garden. I felt a sinking at my heart as he thus openly avowed his hopes and expectations; I could not entirely banish the heavy foreboding, even by recalling the image of the stricken girl, at that moment binding herself, in awful and mysterious companionship, with the spirit that waited for her across the portals of Time. I watched James pacing back and forth, with disquiet steps, through the frozen walks of the garden; presently he lit a cigar, and went out on the lawn, and from thence into the streets. His was one of those minds which do not like their own company when they are uneasy. How he managed to while away the day I do not know; to me it was long and oppressive; Mary remained upstairs with her sister; Mr. Argyll sat in the library with a book, which he held open but did not read. As the sun declined, I felt that a brisk walk in the cold air would be the best medicine for my drooping spirits—it was my usual remedy.
If I remember aright, I had not been in the direction of Moreland villa since that singular meeting I had there with the person who had since played so conspicuous a part in our thoughts, if not in our eyes—except twice, when I had gone with Mr. Burton through the vicinity, in hopes of tracing her from the point of her disappearance—but today, I mechanically chose that road, led thither by the chain of association. Snow glistened on the hilltops, the shores of the river were skirted with ice, though its central current still rolled bluely between those crystal walls. It was sunset when I began my walk; before I reached the villa, the pink flush was fading from the snowy summits; one large star, preternaturally bright, hung over the turrets of the lonely house, shining through the flush of twilight; gray shadows stretched over the barren hillsides, and a cold steel-blue tinged the ice in the river. How desolate the place looked, stripped of its summer garments! I leaned over the gate, while the night approached, making a picture of how the villa would have appeared at this hour, had that which had happened not happened. It would have been a blaze of light, full of flowers and feasting, and alive with happy human creatures. It had been the intention of the young couple to go immediately to their new home, after the wedding-breakfast, and to begin their housekeeping with a reception of their friends that same evening. Instead of warmth and light, gay laughter and music, rolling carriages and prancing horses, feasting, congratulations, love, beauty and happiness, there was silence and desertion, oh, how appalling! I could not bear the contrast between what was and what should have been.
Before returning to the village I thought I would call upon the gardener’s wife, Mrs. Scott, and inquire if she had any tidings of Miss Sullivan; though I knew very well that if she had, she would have let me heard them without waiting for a visit from me. I had grown chilly, leaning so long over the gate, after my rapid walk, and the glow through the window of the little cottage standing at the back of the kitchen-garden, looked inviting. I made my way around to the gate at the back of the premises, and was soon knocking at the door. I had heard Mrs. Scott singing her baby to sleep as I approached the house; but after I knocked there was silence, yet no one answered the summons.
I knocked thrice, the last time rather imperatively, for I was chilly, and did not like waiting so long, when I knew I must be heard. At this the door was opened a little way, very cautiously, the mistress peering out suspiciously.
“Laws! Mr. Redfield, is it you?”—throwing the door wide open. “I beg your pardon for keeping you waiting. If I’d had any idea it was you, I shouldn’t a’ been skeered. But husband’s gone to the village, and I was alone with the children, and when you knocked so sudden, my heart came right up in my mouth. I didn’t like to see who ’twas. Do come in. How cold ’tis out tonight. You look real blue. Take a chair by the stove and warm yourself. I’m real ashamed I kept you standing so long. How is all the family, sir?”
“About as usual, Mrs. Scott. So you are cowardly when you are alone evenings, are you? I’ve mistaken your character,
