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THE NIGHT.
THE last words of the last story fell low and trembling from
Owen's lips. He waited for a moment while Jessie dried the tears
which Anne Rodway's simple diary had drawn from her warm young
heart, then closed the manuscript, and taking her hand patted it
in his gentle, fatherly way.
"You will be glad to hear, my love," he said, "that I can speak
from personal experience of Anne Rodway's happiness. She came to
live in my parish soon after the trial at which she appeared as
chief witness, and I was the clergyman who married her. Months
before that I knew her story, and had read those portions of her
diary which you have just heard. When I made her my little
present on her wedding day, and when she gratefully entreated me
to tell her what she could do for me in return, I asked for a
copy of her diary to keep among the papers that I treasured most.
'The reading of it now and then,' I said, 'will encourage that
faith in the brighter and better part of human nature which I
hope, by God's help, to preserve pure to my dying day.' In that
way I became possessed of the manuscript: it was Anne's husband
who made the copy for me. You have noticed a few withered leaves
scattered here and there between the pages. They were put there,
years since, by the bride's own hand: they are all that now
remain of the flowers that Anne Rodway gathered on her marriage
morning from Mary Mallinson's grave."
Jessie tried to answer, but the words failed on her lips. Between
the effect of the story, and the anticipation of the parting now
so near at hand, the good, impulsive, affectionate creature was
fairly overcome. She laid her head on Owen's shoulder, and kept
tight hold of his hand, and let her heart speak simply for
itself, without attempting to help it by a single word.
The silence that followed was broken harshly by the tower clock.
The heavy hammer slowly rang out ten strokes through the gloomy
night-time and the dying storm.
I waited till the last humming echo of the clock fainted into
dead stillness. I listened once more attentively, and again
listened in vain. Then I rose, and proposed to my brothers that
we should leave our guest to compose herself for the night.
When Owen and Morgan were ready to quit the room, I took her by
the hand, and drew her a little aside.
"You leave us early, my dear," I said; "but, before you go
to-morrow morning--"
I stopped to listen for the last time, before the words were
spoken which committed me to the desperate experiment of pleading
George's cause in defiance of his own request. Nothing caught my
ear but the sweep of the weary weakened wind and the melancholy
surging of the shaken trees.
"But, before you go to-morrow morning," I resumed, "I want to
speak to you in private. We shall breakfast at eight o'clock. Is
it asking too much to beg you to come and see me alone in my
study at half past seven?"
Just as her lips opened to answer me I saw a change pass over her
face. I had kept her hand in mine while I was speaking, and I
must have pressed it unconsciously so hard as almost to hurt her.
She may even have uttered a few words of remonstrance; but they
never reached me: my whole hearing sense was seized, absorbed,
petrified. At the very instant when I had ceased speaking, I, and
I alone, heard a faint sound--a sound that was new to me--fly
past the Glen Tower on the wings of the wind.
"Open the window, for God's sake!" I cried.
My hand mechanically held hers tighter and tighter. She struggled
to free it, looking hard at me with pale cheeks and frightened
eyes. Owen hastened up and released her, and put his arms round
me.
"Griffith, Griffith!" he whispered, "control yourself, for
George's sake."
Morgan hurried to the window and threw it wide open.
The wind and rain rushed in fiercely. Welcome, welcome wind! They
all heard it now. "Oh, Father in heaven, so merciful to fathers
on earth--my son, my son!"
It came in, louder and louder with every gust of wind--the
joyous, rapid gathering roll of wheels. My eyes fastened on her
as if they could see to her heart, while she stood there with her
sweet face turned on me all pale and startled. I tried to speak
to her; I tried to break away from Owen's arms, to throw my own
arms round her, to keep her on my bosom, till he came to take
her from me. But all my strength had gone in the long waiting and
the long suspense. My head sank on Owen's breast--but I still
heard the wheels. Morgan loosened my cravat, and sprinkled water
over my face--I still heard the wheels. The poor terrified girl
ran into her room, and came back with her smelling-salts--I heard
the carriage stop at the house. The room whirled round and round
with me; but I heard the eager hurry of footsteps in the hall,
and the opening of the door. In another moment my son's voice
rose clear and cheerful from below, greeting the old servants who
loved him. The dear, familiar tones just poured into my ear, and
then, the moment they filled it, hushed me suddenly to rest.
When I came to myself again my eyes opened upon George. I was
lying on the sofa, still in the same room; the lights we had read
by in the evening were burning on the table; my son was kneeling
at my pillow, and we two were alone.
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