WAITING IN THE CHURCH.

Cromwell Argus, Volume I, Issue 33, 29 June 1870, Page 7

WAITING IN THE CHURCH.

I '■ ' A OTOBY IS KIItEE PABT3. [ (Prom Chambers't Journal.) I | FARf L-LOVE'S SHIPWRECK. j Bbothe* Jack and I had been friends— I close friends—all our Uvea; and I take it i that is jnore than most brothers could have j aaid when they came to be, one of them I tblrty-two, and the other thirty. I don't mean to say,we had had no rows; I don't : mean to say we had not often sworn eterI ml ,enmity. I don't suppose many broI I thera would believe me if I did say so ; \ mid I don't think much of the brotherly love that never leads to quarrels. Thun-der-storms in July don't prove that summer la winter; and if you'll forgive a rough jlmile, that is a pretty fair illustration of m y life. Jack and I had certain fights wnen we ,were boys j and we got j jouadly thrashed by my father once or I ty va y °f reward, when he found "I us out; but that never made us worse \ F' friends or worse brothers in the end. We If Wgtogether at home till my father died, MB sad then we were together at school until fl? fat day came for each to choose his own I #ay through the world ; our tastes being I 1 less similar than our affections, he went II cut to India, to a Civil Service appointI W n«nt that was opened to him by some electioneering influence of my Uncle Ben's; I and I came up to " walk the hospitals" in | jLondon. We used to say at home that Jack was the lucky one of the family : he made his I »»y wherever he went When he and I were quite little fellows, if any of my , father's friends came to see us, Jack was | taken in hand and made much of, and be--1 came a favourite, long before any of the rest had time enough to study the visitor, or to •vercome that strange, half-proud, [j half-timid bashfulness which belongs to I most children. Jack was always above me in the class at school; though neither I he nor I could ever see that he knew more ff than I did. But the fact is, Jack has always worn his heart upon his sleeve; and his open, friendly, unsuspicious nature has got him a score of friends where others would find one. We at home should have been a good ' deal surprised if we had not heard from India a continuous story of Jack'B successes and Jack's good-fortune. Within five or six years, he made what seemed to us to be tremendous progress; while 1 was was plodding along at a quiet jog-trot pace, working hard to increase a small suburban .' practice. I had thought myself lucky to ' get in that growing outskirt of London , which surrounds the Swiss Cottage. He had gone up from step to step, till his Balary was what our dear old mother (who used to sigh, and fear that she should \ not live to see her boy come home any more) used to call " quite a fortune." Then there came a letter which very muoh fluttered the parental bosom, and made me envy Jack more than ever—a letter in which, with many blundering attempts to tell a straight story, and not a few awk- . ward failures, and much incoherent wandering and irrelevant questions, he announced that he had come to the greatest piece of good-fortune he hoped to have in this world, and was going to be married. He was going to marry a—it did not seem easy for Jack to say what he was going to marry ; but at the very least, a nymph, a saint, a Venus, and an angel all in one. If his description was to be taken as true, even with a ton of salt (not to mention Buck an insignificant modicum as a classical I grain), nobody could doubt that, unless i/j Jack had been the most distempered cynic ' in the world, instead of the merry-hearted, : enthusiastic fellow he was, he could not ! help being in the vejy loftiest height of 1 human bliss. " That boy is going to make a fool of ' himself, after all," said my mother. !" Not a bit of it, mother," said I, being much more sanguine than it was natural 6hß should be as to Jack's wisdom in such matters. j v " He is—l know he iB," persisted my t mother. " Why see what a letter he has |; written !—it's full of nonsense. What's I" i all this he says about her " heavenly face 1" Heavenly face, indeed ! I'll be bound it's some blttbk creature that has bewitched the sill* >y—some scheming hussy I" dear," said my cousin scarcely speak for the to which this vehement con- , demnation of Jack's enchanter provoked I ; Her, "surelyyou don't think the ladies who I go out to India all turn blackamoors. BeI sides, Cousin Jack has much more taste I ; than that, I'm sure."/ , I "Taste, indeed," ejaculated my mother, J11 with a most,contemptuous sniff and a porIf tentous shake of the head. " If he'd any j.| faste, at all, he'd just come home and marry 'I you, m a decent Christian should." if j" La, auntie, I'm sure I don't want anyII ody to come and marry ine; especially n'| hen he can have such a delightful, beau- | I ful, graceful, accomplished, charming I\| un 8 tady M he describes, without any of |H vt&ttjble of coming so many thousands [^-mjfcs."' •.Is|igogh£l detected a tone in Jenny's not altogether accord with her wqrdfl. a That Jenny should care in the least wftat kind of wife Jack might choose, vas not ojute, pleasant to .me. Of course \ waa quT» natural that my mother'should

bo anxious about it; and necessarily I wus of opinion that I had aright to be jealous, of the character of my future sister-in-law. 1 BuW-but Cousin Jenny was different j and I had some r, juliar notions about Oouain Jenny, which might have accounted for the twinge at the heart-stringa I experienced about this time, though I am afraid I could have given but a poor explanation of these notions, or of my right to own them. "An Englishwoman ! pish 1" said my mother, when a further perusal of the letter had elicited i this much about Jack's inamorata. "What; business would any decent, respectable Englishwoman hare to go hunting a husband in such a place as that I" (My mother had, you see, somewhat vague ideas aboui the* British possessions in Hindustan, and scarcely credited them with a civilized population, or any of the elements of what she termed Christian ways of living.) " She's sure to be as yellow as a bandana handkerchief." So it was pretty clear that Jack would have received a pretty strong expression of the maternal disapproval, if not a direct prohibition of the proposed alliance, had he not stated at the close of his letter that he intended to be married, and away to the hills to spend his honeymoon, before any reply could reach him from England. Under such circumstances, there was nothing for it but to send him a budget of congratulations and good wishes, and all kinds of motherly, sisterly, cousinly, and brotherly messages for our new relative, who was henceforth to be called amongst us " Mrs Jack." In due time, there came another letter, in which Jack's happiness was more demonstrative than ever, and his " dearest Mary" sent her love to us all. There was a little note inside this from his " dearest Mary" to my mother; and this, with a photograph which Jack sent her, as an evidence of his young wife's charms, did much to reconcile her to an arrangement which interfered greatly with those wise plans which I suppose all good mothers must ever make for their children, whether the " boys and girls" be puling in their cradles, or going down the gentle hill-side beyond the table-land where the battle of life is fought, In the meantime, my own prospects had very considerably improved, and I began to feel justified in looking forward to a venture from which I had great hopes of deriving rare advantages and contentment. One summer evening, when professional duties left me more at liberty than usual, Cousin Jenny and I took a walk amongst the fields at Kilburn, where now there are no longer country lanes and hedgerows, but only new. roads, and unromantic rows of stucco villas. " Jenny," said I, after a long silence, during which I had been screwing up my courage, " do you know I've made up my mind to do something desperate f' " Are you going to take some of your own medical advice, Ned 1 I fancy that that will bo dreadfully unprofessional,— won't it ?" asked Jeany, looking roguishly at me from under the broad hat that provoked me by hiding bo muoh of her pretty face. " No, I don't know that I'm going to take anybody's advice, because there's only one person who could give me any worth having in this case, and that person, I am afraid, won't give it honestly." " Then it's no friend of mine," said Jenny. " Yes it is—a very particular friend of yours, Jenny." " Oh ! do tell me who it is, if only just that I may contradict you; for I am sure no friend of mine is so dishonest." " I did not say she was dishonest; only in this case she might not" "She, sir? Aid pray, what do you want with a lady'j advice ? Ahd who is the lady ?" " My Cousin Jeany," said I. " Well, to be sure, Mr Ned, you're very complimentary ! I wish I could give you some bad advice, just to pay you for your civility, sir. Whit in the world do you want to come to ashool to me about 1" " I'm thinking of following Jack's example." '(What! goingout to India? Nonsense, Ned; that's imp»ssible." " I don't mean that." " Then, whatever is it you do meanl Is it a riddle that one may guess at three times?" , .'. ." I mean thai I've 'been thinking very seriously about—about getting married," said I. *.[ You, Ned V, cried Jenny, with as much amazement and delight as could well be expressed in tvo such small words and a very large allowance of notes of admiration. " You, sed !•—of all the people in the world. Vhy, what a sly fellow you must be I Butdo tell me who the lady is." "Don't yoiknow?" " Not at all It's Bomebody that I don't know, or I shmld have found it out before now. But I'n so glad—more than I can say. Oh tfdtoll me who she is!" and Jenny looked me full in the face, with a pair of eager eyes that spoke her gladness and hei impatience more eloquently than words. " I've not asked her yet, Jenny." " Oh, heVer mind that I What does that matter? lon ca» ask at once, and, l^hebrort»s»y« < Y«. ,,

"Do you think sot" '">-'! " Of, course, Ned. But—but—do tell me, at once who she is," and her little foot tapped the ground, and she pinched my arm in her haste to know. 41 Why, Jenny, "my dear, who in the wide world should it be but yourself." " If onsense, Ned I you're Only teasing me," she said, and a cloud came over her pretty face, and a him over her bright eyes. "I'm not, indeed, love—it's your own dear self I want to be toy wife," said I, trying to take her little hand in mine. But Jenny turned away and burst into tears, and would not let me touch her. . " Oh, Ned," she sobbed, "I'm so sorry!" Then there came a silence, while the tears ran down her cheeks, and my mind was filled with bewildering, conflicting, agonising hopes and fears. I got courage to ask at length why she was sorry ? "Because, Ned—dear cousin—it cannot be. I never thought you cared for me—in that way—at all ; and:—and I—l have not got a heart to give you." So we turned by and- by, and went home. How sad I was, words could not tell. The hope I had spoken to Cousin Jenny was no now thing,: it had grown up with me from boyhood, and grown stronger from year to, year; and now, when at length I might utter it, I found it was without foundation, and could never be more than a broken vision. Was I hasty, and wanting in proper consideration ? 1 think so now, but I had no conception of it then; and even now I think it might not have been so well for me afterwards if I had been as wise when I asked Jenny to marry me as lam now. As it was, I went back to my powders and pills, to my prescriptions and patients, and tried altogether to forget modream. Not that'l succeeded: my dream would not be forgotten. How should it when the girl I wanted to make my wife was always in the same house with me ] She was " Cousin Jenny" still; but no longer the same kind of cousin to me. All the frank, artless gaiety of her manner with me was gone after that evening walk at Kilburn. My mother heard of i£—l suppose from Jenny, who had been to her as one of her daughters, ever since, at her own mother's death, she had come to live with us. I heard, long afterwards, that they had a difference—almost a quarrel—about this mistake of mine. Jenny would have gone away: she would make me uncomfortable by remaining, she said, and she did not wish to be a burden upon her aunt. But my mother very promptly put down tliia notion. "If Ned was foolish enough to keep his eyes shut, my dear,"' said my mother,"you awhot to suffer for his foolishness. If I can't have you for my own daughter, Jenny, do you suppose lam going to lose you as my niece J Of course, I should have been pleased if you had agreed to take Ned; for Ned's a geod boy, and deserves even as good a girl as you, Jenny—at least, that's hispid mother's opinion, my dear. But it's a great deal better as it is, than it could have been if you had married him without loving him as a good wife should." So Jenny staid with us as before, and I went on with my work as was needful, trying to think that & man may do his, duty and go through the world without any special prospect to cheer him onward; as I had too confidently set before myself in that vision of a home-kingdom, of which Jenny should be queen, sitting on the throne of my heart. During a whole evening after my fruitless confession, all, the change I observed was that while Jenny was more, reserved, she was more gentle towards' me; and my mother was full of tenderness for Jenny, extending a little more watchful solicitude to me than had been her habit before. The weeks and the months went by, and the winter came; and with the winter, a letter from my brother. Jack was coming home to shew his young wife to my mother; and as the doctors said a long sea-voyage would be best for her [" She had been ill, and had lost her first-born, and was very much depressed, poor girl/-' he said], they would come round by the Cape, and hoped to be with us early in the summer. It puzzled me to find that my mother still seemed to cherish a dislike to "Mrs Jack"; and that neither she nor Cousin Jenny showed half the pleasure I expected them to feel in the prospect of this visit. But I was as blind as—well, as a man generally is about women's hearts, is for myself, I was glad enough. The prospect of seeing old Jack again, and of making acquaintance with my charming sister-in-law (for of course Jack's wife must be charming and all that she should be, and I was not a bit affected by these good women's suspicions and jealousies), was simply delightful. I rejoiced in the anticipation of the pleasant reunion the summer would bring; and for a while I forgot the sorrow of my failure with Jenny. After this letter arrived, we looked anxiously for the next, which should tell ub exactly when the voyagers would start, and when wo might expect to see them. But January, February, March, April passed by, and there was nothing further, till ono morning in May, when I was skimming the news columns of the Times after breakfast, I came upon a paragraph which startled me. It was in the budget of intelligence brought by the Cape mail oo th« previous daj*.

"The barque Star of the East, from Bombay to London, foundered in ft gale oil the north-east coast of Madagascar, on the 10th of March. She had on board, besides her crew of twenty-three hands; all told, the following six passengers for England: —Captain Galbraith,' 79 th Regiment, and his daughter; Dr' and Mrs Wilbraham; and Mr John DeUsle, of the Civil Service, with Mrs DeUsle. The master of the ship aud Mr Delisle, who were Baved almost by a miracle, arrived here yesterday, in a! most exhausted condition, and report the total loss of the rest of the pass'sngers and crew of the unfortunate So poor Jack was a widows, and was coining home to us without the wife of whom he had been so proud, ( Ta be Continued in our next,)