Just in Time.

Evening Post, Volume LXXVII, Issue 133, 12 June 1909, Page 10

Just in Time.

By L, T.-MEADE, Author of " Stories from the Diary of a Doctor," efco. (All Rights Eeserved.)

Tt was thought a great match for 'Anne Page, who lived in the Highetreet of the little old-world town of '-Chalfont, when she became engaged to -"Peter Carey. Peter Carey was a landed proprietor, who lived in a small i>ut very nice old house about two miles out of Chalfont. He was well off, that is, he had about a thousand a year, and as Anne had not a penny, and was -never likely to have any, she was much ■envied by her neighbours. - She was a tall, straight, good-looking ■girl, with dark-brown eyes, arched eye3)rows/ and thick chestnut hair, which -grew somewhat low on her forehead. -"There were a great many other girls at v Chalfont, and also in the surrounding -neighbourhood, and they all looked upTon Peter as the catch of the place. He .had lived at the Grange from his birth, tis had his father before him. He had, . of course, gone aw^ay to school and college, but had come back to settle down in the old place; he was twenty-five ' years of age, a very good-looking, fair-,-haired, fine young man. T There 'were -the-Dickenses and the ;-Frankforts and the Moores, all with daughters, and nobody thought for a single 'moment that Peter """would set his affections on Anne, who .kept herself, as the saying is, a good ..Ideal to herself, and was not a. special •favourite, excepting with her father, who adored her. 7 "Old Page," as he was universally called, was a retired tradesman. He had not done very well in his busi■ness, and he had only retired because the business had left him to go into the hands of naoye enterprising men. Still, lie had just enougb to live on, and' Anne looked after him and saw after his' -.comforts, and kept "the house tidy and ' did her utmost to make him happy and comfortable.' Peter Carey met her one day when "ho was riding by on his favourite cob. He., noticed the clearness of her .darkbrown eyes, the roses of her complexion, and the uprightness of her carriage. His eyes met hers for a moment and then they looked away. The next day it so happened that he met her again, and *then somehow or other she became on speaking terms with him. Not that she cared in the least about this. People used to say that Anne Page would never marry, that she was born to be an old maid, and would certainly be so all her - days. Nevertheless there came a certain morning in the bright spring of the year, when, who should come riding- down the High-street but young .Carey. .Ho stopped outside, Page's door and "ask^fl ' to jseenthe old man,' "Anne was out at the time, but the servant, Lydia Makepeace, by name, let him in and .ushered him into her; master's presence. Peter came to the business in hand at .once. "Mr. Page," he said, "I want a wife, and I have taken a fancy to your daughter. Miss Anne. Do you think I have any chance with her? I have plenty of money to start her comfortably, as you doubtless know, but I will not begin to pay .my addresses without your permission." Old 'Page had . dark eyes like his daughter, but in no other possible way did he resemble her. Those eyes twinkled now with delight. Anne, his "Anne, as mistress of the Grange ! Anne Page suddenly turned into Mistress Carey — Anne to become the most respected lady in the whole of Chalfont! "My dear sir," he said, "you do us a great honour. I can assure you that there is not the slightest doubt that my daughter will bo pleased to receive your -addresses, and I may also add that she is so good a girl that she is worthy to be any man's wife." "I ' have seen her and admire her appearance," said Carey. "All I want - .s a sensible girl, who won't expect me to waste my money in undue fineries and unnecessary extravagances, and who can faithfully promise me that she has never cared for any one else in the who'e course of her life." "All these things Anne can promise," said Page, who was trembliilg with eagerness. "As far as I can tell she li-m hardly ever spoken to another man. She is just twenty-two years of age, a good, * marriageable age, my kind sir, and I have brought her up carefully. She is> well educated, and you need not be •ashamed of her in whatever society you may move." '"Well then, I may pay my addresses, ' said Peter, rising. "You give me leave to call in the evenings, and perhaps you will give your daughter a hint of what she is to expect." "I will do so, Mr. Carey, and I may as well say at once that I am highly honoured by your proposal." "She is not in at the present moment, is she?" continued Carey, looking restlessly round him. "There is- no time like the present," he continued. "I like to strike while the iron is hot." "No; she has gone to see her aunt, and won't be back until evening. PerEaps, Mr. Carey, 1 might venture to giva <t, word of advice. It would be best foi* you to call to-morrow evening. I' can laUcl to., my daughter" to-night, and as sootf'as _£ver you like after that, you can say what you please to her. lam highly honoured, sir, highly honoured." Peter Carey rode away* He did not care for old Page, but he had fallen "n. love with Anne. There was something about her sweet brown eyes which went straight to his heart. He was determined .to win her r and after their marriage Qiey need not see more of the old man thn was necessary. "There is always a f&orn in every lotj" thought Peter, "and fIM Page is my thorn. Anne herself •will make a delightful wife, I am in love with her — it is fiplendid to be in love — jyid it will be such a, shock to all these grand girls who think no end of themselves, and who would waste my substance before I came to thirty years of age. No, Anne is the girl for me, and she shall 'rule the roost' at the Grange, or I am much mistaken." • That evening Anne came back looking eomevyhat tired and pale. Her father' 1 ! old sister lived about ten miles away, and she- had been spending the day with Her. Aunt Agatha was deaf and nearly blind, and she spent her entire time grumbling. 'She had grumbled as usual to Anne, who i.ried to soothe her as much as possible. But tho girl was weary after the long hours speno with the cantankerous old woman, and was glad to got back to her home. She found James Page.-'or "old Page," as he was .universally called, in the best of humours. "Why, Anne, Anna, my sweet!" he said. "I have something to say to you." "I am so hungry, father, I cannot Kgten to any talk until after supper," Anne replied. "Well, I don't mina a bit oi something tasty," said the old man. "Dear, dear, opghfc to put glovss on your hands, lAarno-^ft lady's hands should always 100 <£ nrtritfl." Anne laughed and looked at Jam. "But I am not a lady," phe replied. "Folly!" he said. "Your mother was a lady and you are one, and I don't see because 'I kept a shop once that I am not as good a gentleman as anybody. Lydia gets wgrse and worse, you really must get rid of her, tAnne. But time enough for "that wien a]\ the other iphaßggg-liaseitgkflß^nj^ce^-

Anna naturally wondered what her father was talking about. She went into the kitchen, and assisted* the very untidy maid with the simple meal which had been provided. Then she went back to her father. They had _ their supper almost in silence. When it was nearly over Anne began to talk about her Aunt Agatha. "■She is failing fast," she said. "She is deaf, she can hardly hear a word one says, and very nearly blind too. I think she ought to come and live witn us." "Nonsense!" said old Page. "I won't have her on any terms'. But now, Anne, do forget that woman, I have a piece of news for you. My dear, handsome girl, I didn't givo you those brown eyes — I nsed to have splendid eyes myself when I was young — for nothing, and you inherited your figure from your mother, and your carriage and your general bearing, and your neat, pretty features from her also. She was a woman in ten thousand." "My dear father, what does all tihis mean?" said Anne. She was not accustomed to being praised, and rather resented it than otherwise. ''Well, my dear, it is just this," said the old man. "Who do you think has been here to-day? Now just guess." Anne's heart gave a wild leap. Then it sobered down. Then ehe said, gently : "So many people call. I can't guess — tell me." "No less a person," said old Page, speaking with great deliberation, "than Peter Carey — .Mr. Carey, I should say — the Squire of the Grange." "•Well, father, I have only spoken to him once or twice. But he seems a nice, civil sort of young man." "A nice civil sort of young man !" said old Page, rising to his feet in his anger. "Let me tell you, he is the finest specimen of a man I have met, and what is. more, he is in love with you — with you, Anne, just "because of your eyes, and your pretty figure, and your nice face, and charming manners, and he wants to woo and to marry you, lass ; no man could act more proper. He knows that I haven't a penny, but he doesn't care a, bit for that--he wants you, you yourself, and of course I gave him permission, and he is coming to see you — he is coming to-morrow evening. You will be mistress of the Grange before three months are out. It is a very gopd thing for me and a very handsome thing for you, my girl. Why, you will be the finest lady in the place, and there won't be one of those fine madams who won't bow down to you." ' Now Anne did- not smile, and the only thing that happened to her was that she grew very pale indeed. "Aren't you delighted, aren't you proud, aren't you glad?" said old Page, giving her a dig in the ribs. "Is it every girl whose father once kept a shop who gets an offer like that?" "Oh, I am not thinking about the grandeur of the offer,'' said Ahne. "It is very, very kind of Mr. Carey, and I'm sure from what I hare seen of him, he is nice. But you see, father, daddy — I don't — I don"t — love him." " Love ! Fiddlesticks !" said old Page. "It isn't so with me, father, and you remember that once there was — " -' Oh, if you are thinking of Edward Bourne, he has been q/3ad and in his grave for the last four years, and he was never a bit worthy of you, never.I always said so. Just a harum-scarum sort of young chap, with black eyes and hair on end with excitement, and no money at all. You's got- to forget all that, and what is more, Anne, you are not to breathe the name • of Edward Bourne to Peter Carey, for Peter says he will only mai'ry a girl who has never loved any one else, so you are to keep all that to yourself. Why, what is the. matter with you ? You look so white, one would think you were going to faint." "I am thinking," said Anne. "Do not torment me," "Torment you, indeed — when you have got the best offer in the whole neighbourhood." "It isn't that, father> I am not thinking about that- at all-— it is the fact — oh, father, I haven't forgotten Edward !" " Well, the sooner you* forget him the better. I would never have allowed you to marry him; you clearly understand that fact. And he was drowned at sea four years ago. You met him at Rushbrook during that month we were there, and not a soul here knows anything about it,' so the name of Edward Bourne need never get to Peter Carey's ears. But you have got to marry Peter, Anne, for I have got to the very end of my resources, and if you refuse this gentleman who has fallen in love with you because you are a lady, there is nothing but the workhouse for me and common service for you." Anne sat very still. She really -was a perfect lady. She had that marvellous knack, which only a perfect lady possesses, of keeping her body in absolute repose when she was busily employed. Her mind w?s thinking hard now, and she sat as still as a statue. After a time she got up slowly, and bending over her father, said :—: — " You have been a good father to me; is it true what you say about the workhouse 1" ■ • " It's absolutely true. I have in the whole world at the present moment not more than thirty pounds." " Well, I will think everything over to-night, and let you know in the morning,'' said Anne. She went upstairs to her' room. Whether she slept or not was never known, but a fortnight la-ter the news spread like wildfire all over the place that Anne Page was engaged to Peter Carey, and the marriage was to take place in the following July. Peter supplied the funds for the trousseau, and Anne allowed him to do so. She was very ' apathetic, and not particularly affectionate, but he liked her all the better' on these accounts. He had learnt for himself that her mother was a lady by birth, and he determined to pension off old Page and get rid of him when once he was married %o Anne. Two or tliree times he had ' asked her a solitary question, — ' ' You have never loved any one before you met me, did you, my sweetest Anne?" — and she had replied invariably in the negative, — " No, Peter." But every timo he asked her the question her heart seemed to sink lower in her breast, and her mind was full of saddest forebodings. ■ Nevertheless, for her father's sake, she had made up her mind to go through the ceremony, for Ned, that gallant sailor, was in his sea grave, and no 6ne need ever know — ever — all those passages which had occurred between them^ The night before the wedding arrived at last. It had been a brilliantly hot day, ai}d the evening itself was close with gathering clouds, and the sort of look in the sky which seems to foretell n storm. The wedding, contrary to universal custom, was to take place from the Grange, tt was impossible to have a suitable reception in "Page's smallhouso in the High-street, but the Grange was large, with lofty rooms, and. Peter had himself insisted on having the entire neighbourhood invited to his marriage. He was wild with excitement. His passion for Aune had now grown to fever-heat. He could think of no one but Anne. He was prouder of her than if she had "been the daughter .of the highest nobleman in the land. , "To-morrow I shall^kpld -fes? *S P/r

heart," he-said' to himself. ' '-'To-morrow she will be mine for all time — my Anne ! my sweet, sweet Anne !" Carey had made ample provision "for old James Page. He was to live in the same house with his ancient sister, the Aunt Agatha whom Anne had gone to see on the very day when Carey had proposed to her. Page had grumbled a good deal at that. He had wild thoughts of occupying rooms at the Grange, and strutting round amongst his daughter's fine friends, and showing them that he, a retired tradesman, was as good, and better, than the best of them. But Carey had quenched those hopes with extreme gentleness and firmness. He had made ample settlement on his future father-in-law, and Anne had told the old man quietly that he must submit. Tho wedding-day had now almost arrived. Page, grumbling a good deal, but in reality in the wildest spirits, had retired to bed. Anne sat in her tiny room with its sloping* roof, the room where she had slept nearly all her days. The window was wide open, and she sat by it looking out at the summer sky. She was thinking hard ; had any one noticed her face at that moment, that person would have observed that it was full of agony. "I have told him lie after lie," she said to herself. "I wonder if, after we are married, he will go on asking me that awful question : 'Have I ever loved any one else in the whole course of my life?' Oh, if he does, I think I shall go mad. There are some men in the world to whom I could tell the truth, but Peter Carey is not one of them. He could not bear it; he would never forgive me." She slipped her hand into her pocket, and took out a little purse. In one of its inside folds was a tiny key. She took the key now, and, opening a drawer in her small v -i ing table, removed from thence a 'cet of letters, written in a very inaiiij hand — the sort of hand that only a very open-hearted and fiery nature would write. These letters were tied together with the timehonoured blue ribbon. Anne laid them out on the window-sill. There were six in all. • . She began at number one, and read through the six letters Then she put them carefully back into their envelopes, and tied them , together once again with the blue ribbon. She again went to the same drawer, and this time took out a photograph. It was unframed, and evidently the work of an amateur. But it represented a bold-faced, black-eyed, curly-headed young man — a man with lips firm as steel, and eyes full of fun, and affection, and fir<;. Anne looked stealthily round her. She raised the photograph to her lips, and kissed it. "Good-bye, Ned !" she whispered, and she laid the photograph under the letters. Once again she visited the drawer, and now she brought out something else — something wrapped in a little piece of chamois leather. With trembling fingers she unfolded the leather, and there lay in her hand a plain gold ring — a wed"ding ring. She kissed the ring, as she had kissed the photograph. She even slipped it on the third finger of the left hand, -where another ring would shine to-morrow, and again she said, in a broken-hearted voice : "Good-bye, Ned — for ever !" Then she went downstairs, stealing softly through the silent house ; and, going to the kitchen, she opened tho little range, and threw the photograph letters, and ring on some red hot coal. She waited in the kitchen until all was consumed. Then she went back to -her room, undressed quietly, and went to bed. She dropped asleep at once from sheer fatigue, and when she awoke it was her wedding morning. It was to be quite a grand wedding ; Peter took care of that. A carriage was to ' arrive for the bride and her father at twelve o'clock sharp. Anne was, to wear a white silk dress, and a veil of Honiton lace which had belonged to Peter's own mother. Peter said to himself that nowhere in all the world could be found so lovely a bride as this maiden of two and twenty, who had never loved any one but hini. One of the bridesmaids came to help Anne to dress. By and by the carriage arrived for her, and she stepped in, her face as white as her dress. As they were going towards the church she suddenly bent forwarc, and gave a sharp cry. She looked out, and, clutching her father by the arm, said :—: — "Oh, let us go back — I can't marry him after all !" "Don't be an utter fool, Anne," was Page's rejoinder. She seemed to recover herself at once, but when she entered the church, which was full of interested people — for the marriage of Peter Carey of the Grange was considered a great event in the neighbourhood — every one noticed the extreme pallor of the bride's face. It was white as marble, but that very whiteness seemed to add to her distinction and beauty. She went up the aisle very slowly, leaning on old Page's arm ; and there surely never was a prouder man than old Page at that moment. The bridesmaids followed. The bridegroom was waiting for the bride, and the best man — a very fine-looking fellow from Oxford — was attending to his duties. The service proceeded. Then came the injunction to bride and bridegroom . . . . . If either of you know any impediment, why ye may not be lawfully joined together in matrimony, ye do now confess it .... This ended, there was a slight pause, and in that pause a voice rang out : "I declare there is an impediment ! This marriage cannot go on." It was as if a bomb had been fired into the church, for every one turned in wild confusion — bride, bridegroom, Bridesmaids, officiating clergyman, all the guests, old Page himself. But nothing could prevent a stalwart young man in a dark blue suit ? with a swinging gait which betokened him to be what he was- — a sailor who sails the seas — from fighting his way through that throng. He came straight up to Anne, who flew" to him with a cry of rapture and flung herself into his arms. As to Carey, he was a man of determination, and though as a rule of gentle temper, he had loved Anne most truly, and had treated her as well as man could treat a girl— even he was not proof against seeing his all but wife in the arms of another man. "Hush, Carey ! Don't speak," said the Rector. — " Now, sir," he said, coming up to the sailor, "speak at once, and say by what right you interrupt this ceremony. " , * "By right of the simple fact that Anne Page is not Anno Page at all," was his reply; "for she married me four years ago — quite secretly, it is true ; but our marriage can be in no way disputed. I can get a copy of the certificate if anybody doubts my word. Anne was afraid of her father, who had wild ideas of a great match for her ; so she would not tell him, and we just went away together and were married. We parted at the . church-door, for I had to join my ship, and afterwards it was reported that I was drowned. And you believed it, Anne ; you believed it," said Edward Bourne, looking full into the dark eyes of his wife. "I did — I did," she answered. "You never wrote, and your name was in the list of those who were drowned in the wreck of the Hesperus. And — oh ! I have behaved dreadfully to this good man. Nad I thought you were alive, you know that I could never have been 'anything but true to you." "Well, you must be true to me now, my girl, seeing that you are my lawful wife," was Bourne's response. There was a little movement at that instant. It was caused by the intended brideevoom going away and tmfc of the church . thrpugh ths vestry- door, pne

by one, Peter Carey's guests followed his example, until at last there was no one left but Anne, her real husband, and old Page. Old Page began to use strong language, whereupon the verger turned husband and wife and the angry old man out of the building. But no angry words on the part of Page could destroy Anne's happiness. " I did fearfully wrong in -* telling the whole story to Peter," si -aid. "I said I would marry him because of father ; because there was only the workhouse before him, and service before me. I didn^t think of myself, I only thought of father. I did wrong — wrong — wrong ! " They had got back to Page's house. Bourne said abruptly : " It's a lucky thing I was in time. As a matter off fact, I reached Chalfont late last night, and the first thing I heard this morning was that the whole place Was agog with the prospect of a wedding between a certain Anne Pago and a man called Peter Carey. I could not believe it was my Anne until I caught sight of her face as she was going to church. I thought she saw me. Did you see me, Anne ?" " I thought it was your ghost," she said. " I got an awful fright, I didn't for a moment suppose you could be in the world, and I wanted to go back then, for I felt I could not marry Peter, 'loving you as I do." -"Well, I was in time," said Bourne; "only just, though." That night there came a letter for Anne from Peter Carey. It was very short, and to the point. "Why did not you tell me that you had contracted a secret marriage with another man, and that you loved him ? I am leaving the Grange for two years. As you cannot be my wife, I am sending you a small wedding present, which I hope you will accept. It is only the ring which I meant to put on your finger. Perhaps the other man will use it. He may consider that it will bring him luck. — Peter Carey." " I will put that ring on your finger this minute," said Bourne, and he did so, for Anne had told him how she had burnt her real wedding ring the night before. Page was a poor and struggling man to the end of his days, and nothing was heard of Peter Carey for long years, until at last the news came that he had married a very rich and beautiful young Italian lady, and that he was coming home with his bride. Anne lives at Rushbrook, to be close to her husband whenever he returns with his ship. She is only a poor woman after all — the wife of an honest Jack Tar ; but she thanks God who saved her just in time from a terrible wrong.