In the "Nick of Time."

Lake Wakatip Mail, Issue 1522, 12 March 1886, Page 3

In the "Nick of Time."

Thi night before my wedding day! Was ever night so fuH of hoars—were ever hears 10 full of dreary minutes, that seemed to crawl after each other through its dead, cold gloom ? Yet it was. by my own consent, to w» my wedding day to morrow. I had ■•id it ; I had not only said it, but I h»d said I should never repent. As the early dawn breaks through the gloom of night, I hear the old Bock in the farm-yard give a dismal boot preparatory to the first crow of the new day. And, utterly tired out, J fall asleep. One— two—three—four —five—si 3 -seven—eight beats of the tall ok slock on the stair-baa d outside m] ioor, and I jumped wildly to my feet

* At Line o'clock, then," he taid. I had only ore hour—only one hour to be Norah Glennie. At the time that clock struck ten I should be Norah Maple son—a wife, a true wife to a true husband.

I re-arranged my dress with feverish haste.

I only stop to drink a cup of milk ere I leave the house, only just in time to catch the country train as it passes our country station. I am in time. Once more my hands are clasped in his.

We say no words; only hurry through the sleepy streets till we enter the dingy office, where by some strange method, we are made man and wife. All is a dream to me.

I wonder vaguely if here are all my bridet-maidi, where are my father and mother ? Bih ! Wby, of course, they are dead long ago. I bave only my uocie, and he is lying bedridden at Norlington Farm. How could he be here r TLe only thing that seems real to me is the ■bining ring on my finger. I look at it in a kind of fear as 1 drawmv old kid glove overit beforeleaving the house into which Norah Glennie had gone a few minutes ajro, and out of which now a white, startled woman

Wat issuing—Norah Mapleson. " Don't be so distressed, my darling! Don't look 10, or I cannot bear it'." I draw a deep breath. I stretch out my band a little wildly, for he takf b it firmly in his, and lays it on his arm as he hurries me through the streets back •gain in the direction of the railway station.

Once more we are in the train. "Mine—mine for ever' I do not fear the future now ! ! * is all mv husband says; but there is a world of love in his eyes. Poor William ! In a week's time he will be on the ocean, and we will have parted for nany months—perhaps years. He let me rest quietly in bis arm* during the very 6bort journey heck again to Norlicgton. I pet out* of the train alone, as he is going on some business two stations further on ; then he will come rack fur the rest of the week to the farm. " Before you go into hi* room, wife, darling, you will take it off? "—aLd he touches my fii'ger, on which the bright new weddiug-ring glitters. "I cannot:" 1 say, shuddering " It is urJucky to remove a wedding. rinc."

"Bat, my darling, his sharp eyes will 1 i

The train goes on, and 1 am alone. I see his face looking at mo from the window, alarmed and animus j but Ij nod reassuringly, and he smiles. It causes no remark that I hare been out so early this morning, for j eyerything lately it so unset by reason \ of Hide's illness and William's near' departure. Then, ajiairj, there is only old Betty | in the kitchen, and perhaps she scarcely knows I have been out ; and if the I nurse who baa been called in to attend my uacle knuwa, she doubtless thinks I 1 have been into town on some house-1 hold errand. About my ring, I must hide it; but l I cannot take it erf. I hurry up into I my room, and hurriedly turn over the contents of an old musty dressing case ' that had been my father's. Where can it be ? That old garnet ring, with the j qaeer undergrove in it, that i feel sure | will let this thin wedding-ring into it, and so keep my secret from prying •yea. j

Ah! with hot, trembling fingers I find it; it does actually what 1 thought it would do. With that broad oil riDg always on I need fear no discovery. None but my•eil* would ever know" that under it Jay another, the tiny circlet of gold binding me closer ihan iron bando would do to my " dear love." During the day my old uncle is taken much worse, and he will let no one be near bioi but me. William Comes in and out of the room, but I am tied to it all day till toward evening uncle tails into a deep sleep, and I can eafeiy leave him with his nnrse. It was a rambling old bouse, Nurlington farm, and it bad been my only home now lor nearly seTen yearn, all of which time William Mapleson had lived a* my uncle's steward and helper under the same roof. It bad bf en a hard self-denying life for him, perhaps; but for me—or rather for his love for me —he would never have borne it Till latterly the hard old man had never discovered our lot e | and when he had there wn no more peace for us under his roof)

He had raged and stormed, declaring that no neice of his should marry William Mapleson on pain of his disinheritance. Mine was always a weak, timid nature. Perhaps some women (I was no longer a young girl; my thirtieth birthday had come and gone) would have actively resented his tyranny, and asserted her individual rights; I could not. I was in his power, for when my parents died he had taken me in a penniless girl, and had from that time given me, in his particular hard way, all that I needed in life—not but what some would have felt that they fully earned such keep. I scarcely ever looked at it in that way.

I had been weak and helpless, alone in the world, not very strong in health when be had come to my father's funeral; and, after paying all expenses had simply said—"Now go and pack your kit Tou must go with me to Norlington farm. Can't say, I'm sure what old Betty will say ; but, there's nothing else, as I see, to be done. Remember, my girl, 'tis not a lady's life I'm offering you; but I suppose you are not too fine a lady know what work means ?"

If I had been then, all was corrected by now. During these seven years I have worked hard and lived hard.

Yet there are those who say old Peter Olennie is worth half a million of money.

My golden week of happiness is gone, but, although William is gone, I am strangely content. I do not regret the step I have taken.

Since the morning after my marriage my uncle had been better aud quieter. Old Mr. Bains, the lawyer, had been with him a full hour that morning, and old Jenkins had been called into bis room to sign bis name to some document, together with the hired nurse.

" lie's a miserable old man," she said to me that same day. " I suppose it's his will we signed. What a grudge he seems to bave against marriage. He growls continually in his sleep about fools getting married." "Ah !" I taid, "he has never married.' 1

" >~o," she laughed. " I should not say that any one was the loser by that, either."

He had called her at thib moment, and I was left alone to overhear a conversation between old Jenkins and Hetty, 'aho being boh deaf, were talking over the same matter in the kitchen.

" Ah, well, Betty, it's a hard day for the farm when William goes away; an' how'll the old master do wi' a new steward at his toime of life, 1 wonder"

" He knows what he's about, never vfj fear. Do'ee think for a moment h 8 how he don't know a-letting him go is the only way o' preventing a marriage between him and Miss Norah! Ha! Ha! Ha;"

As I hear her cunning old laugh at |my expense I sit hugging my love to ilj heart. Old Betty always owed mc a grudge for coining to Xorlington farm, although she had been compelled to show me ordinary civility. How little she knew we were married only yesterday, under her very nose, as it were. So far I had deceived him and the few other peo;:le I knew—deceived him through hisown bardneea So far as I was concerned, I would have told him, only 1 knew, and my hueband knew, that any sudden shock wouH, in all probability, kill him. We should have parted and kept true faith to each other if my strength had not been weakened when the good offer to go to Canada had come so suddenly. Then he had prayed me to marry him before he started, so that if my uncle died I might at once come out to him as his wife.

And now William was gone. The ship had sailed and I was alone, but happier far than if I had denied him his prayer. Since the day after my marriage, when Mr Baines had been with my uncle, he had been more quiet, but strancely amioua not to let me out of his sight. All through the week I had not been once out of tho house. Of this he seemed to tnko full < arc by keeping me near him by every pretext he could think of.

The ship had sailed only one week whin my uncle died suddenly; and then on the day of his lonely funeral came tho reading of the old master's will.

I carre down with my wedding-ring exposed for the first time.

It was noticed at once. Mit-<5 Glennie and Mr Haines looked j aghast at me. The doctor who atI tended m/ poor old uncle looked I horrified, as well he might knowing • that it meaut disinheritance if 1 mar- : ried.

Old Betty's eyes had a wicked gleam in them as she said—" Perhaps you | didn't know, you and William Maple- : son, that you'd loose everything if you ' marri« d ? "

" We did not care to think of it," 1 said. " 1 should have sailed with him had not my duty kept me with your master."

At that moment I could not lay 14 my uncle,' 1 old Betty looked so malicious.

" And so," she said, •' you have gone and lost i fortune—lost a fortune to get married ?"

I cannot describe the insolent sneer with which she hissed out the word p. "I made his will the 27th of thip month, my dear lady, decreeing it «n. When were you married ? " " On the 26th, Mr Bains." The old gentleman stared at mo, then rapidly read the short will.

I was to be disinherited of more than half-a-million of money if I maried from that date—so it was worded. I was married the day before.