AN UNEXPECTED OCCURRENCE
We will now turn to a certain still, cold, cloudy afternoon about the commencement of December, when the first fall of snow lay thinly scattered over the blighted fields and frozen roads, or stored more thickly in the hollows of the deep cart ruts and footsteps of men and horses, impressed in the now petrified mire of last month's drenching rains. I remember it well, for I was walking home from the vicarage, with no less remarkable a personage than Miss Eliza Millward by my side. I had been to call upon her iather,--a sacrifice to civility undertaken entirely to please my mother, not myself, for I hated to go near the house; not merely on account of my antipathy to the once so bewitching Eliza, but because I had not half forgiven the old gentleman himself for his ill opinion of Mrs. Huntingdon; for though now constrained to acknowledge himself mistaken in his former judgment, he still maintained that she had done wrong to leave her husband; it was a violation of her sacred duties as a wife, and a tempting of Providence by laying herself open to temptation; and nothing short of bodily ill-usage (and that of no trifling nature) could excuse such a step--or even that, for in such a case she ought to appeal to the laws for protection. But it was not of him I intended to speak; it was of his daughter Eliza. Just as I was taking leave of the vicar, she entered the room, ready equipped for a walk.
`I was just coming to see your sister, Mr. Markham,' said she;
`and so if you have no objection, I'll accompany you home. I like company when I'm walking out--don't you?'
`Yes, when it's agreeable.'
`That of course,' rejoined the young lady, smiling archly. So we proceeded together.
`Shall I find Rose at home, do you think?' said she, as we closed the garden gate, and set our faces towards Lirden-car.
`I believe so.'
`I trust I shall, for I've a little bit of news for her--if you haven't forestalled me.'
`I?'
`Yes: do you know what Mr. Lawrence is gone for?' She looked up anxiously for my reply.
` Is he gone?' said I, and her face brightened.
`Ah! then he hasn't told you about his sister?'
`What of her ?' I demanded, in terror lest some evil should have befallen her.
`Oh, Mr. Markham, how you blush!' cried she with a tormenting laugh. `Ha, ha, you have not forgotten her yet! But you had better be quick about it, I can tell you, for alas, alas!--she's going to be married next Thursday!'
`No, Miss Eliza! that's false.'
`Do you charge me with a falsehood, sir?'
`You are misinformed.'
`Am I? Do you know better then?'
`I think I do.'
`What makes you look so pale then?' said she, smiling with delight at my emotion. `Is it anger at poor me for telling such a fib? Well, I only "tell the tale as 'twas told to me:" I don't vouch for the truth of it; but at the same time, I don't see what reason Sarah should have for deceiving me, or her informant for deceiving her; and that was what she told me the footman told her:--that Mrs. Huntingdon was going to be married on Thursday, and Mr. Lawrence was gone to the wedding. She did tell me the name of the gentleman, but I've forgotten that. Perhaps you can assist me to remember it. Is there not some one that lives near--or frequently visits the neighbourhood, that has long been attached to her? a Mr.--oh dear!--Mr.--'
`Hargrave?' suggested I, with a bitter smile.
`You're right!' cried she, `that was the very name.'
`Impossible, Miss Eliza!' I exclaimed in a tone that made her start.
`Well, you know, that's what they told me,' said she, composedly staring me in the face. And then she broke out into a long shrill laugh that put me to my wits' end with fury.
`Really, you must excuse me,' cried she: `I know it's very rude, but ha, ha, ha!--Did you think to marry her yourself? Dear, dear, what a pity! ha, ha, ha!--Gracious, Mr. Markham! are you going to faint? O mercy! shall I call this man? Here, Jacob--' But checking the word on her lips, I seized her arm and gave it, I think, a pretty severe squeeze, for she shrank into herself with a faint cry of pain or terror; but the spirit within her was not subdued: instantly rallying, she continued, with well feigned concern--`What can I do for you? Will you have some water--some brandy?--I dare say they have some in the public-house down there, if you'll let me run.'
`Have done with this nonsense!' cried I sternly. She looked confounded--almost frightened again, for a moment. `You know I hate such jests,' I continued.
` Jests indeed! I wasn't jesting !'
`You were laughing, at all events; and I don't like to be laughed at,' returned I, making violent efforts to speak with proper dignity and composure, and to say nothing but what was coherent and sensible. `And since you are in such a merry mood, Miss Eliza, you must be good enough company for yourself, and therefore I shall leave you to finish your walk alone--for, now I think of it, I have business elsewhere; so good evening.'
