MRS. MEREDITH HAS A CONVERSATION WITH MR. TWISSEL.—THE ANNOUNCEMENT, AND THE INVITATION.
When the servant answered the knock, Mr. Twissel learned, to his severe disappointment, that Mrs. Meredith was from home; and he was about to turn from the door, after leaving his name, when the girl said that her mistress had left a message, the purport of which was, that if he, Mr. Twissel, was to call, she would feel obliged by his awaiting her return, as her absence would be but short, and the subject upon which she wished to see him was one of particular importance.
Mr. Twissel was shown into the parlour much about the same as usual; but he himself was somewhat of a different state. He himself was considerably disgusted with his share of the business; but, as we have before stated, he was resolved never to give in; no, he was resolved to carry it on to the end.
“It must come to a wind-up somehow or other, and at some time or other; but, at the same time, as I have taken so much interest in that I am resolved to see it out, I won’t lose all I have lost for nothing; it shall be with me a neck or nothing affair; and, however aggravating it may be, you will have a greater chance in the long run of coming off victorious.”
Several minutes passed away, and still Mrs. Meredith came not. At length the attorney began to grow somewhat impatient, and he looked around the apartment, as if to find some object to pass away the time until her arrival. On a table in the centre of the room lay several books, and he opened one or two of them for the purpose of ascertaining the nature of the contents. The title of one of them attracted his attention; it consisted of a collection of tales of the supernatural, and he opened it upon a legend called “The Dead Not Dead.” It possessed considerable interest, and Twissel was soon lost in its details. It ran as follows:—
The moon, with her train of glittering satellites following with silent grandeur in her wake, is sailing, in lustrous glory, through the heavens, and shedding such a flood of light over the face of nature, that the mountains and trees look as if some mighty hand had tinted them with silver.
Our scene is a rocky pass amidst the stupendous Apennines—one of the wildest, and yet most beautiful of that romantic region.
At the foot of a tree, and on a spot on which the rays of the moon fall with all their power, sits a young man, who is evidently watching over what appears to be a dead body that lies prostrate at his feet. His head is resting on his hand, and he is regarding the form before him with mingled fear and determination.
Hark! he speaks! What are his words?
“For full an hour have the rays of yonder luminary poured their radiance upon the ghastly features of my dead master, and yet there is no effect visible. Surely he must have been labouring under some fearful delusion of mind, and the dreadful compact of which he has spoken had existence but in his imagination. I certainly had some little faith in the existence of those scourges to mankind—vampyres, but now, I am inclined to think, my faith will be terribly shaken. In God’s name, I hope it may.”
The moon rose higher and higher, until, as she reached her zenith, everything was so bathed in her gentle light, that scarcely a shadow was thrown around, save by the tall pines that were scattered here and there upon the face of the rocks.
Suddenly there was a movement in the form of the dead man—a spasmodic jerk of the whole muscles of the frame, as if a galvanic battery had been applied to it; and then the eyes slowly opened, though at first there was but little or no expression in them.
The young man started to his feet with an exclamation of horror, and stood glaring upon the form with fixed and protruding eyes, his limbs trembling, and every feature distorted with mental agony.
“Holy mother of God!” he murmured, in a low tone, “he moves! he moves! The terrible compact is too true.”
At this moment, though there was not the slightest appearance of a cloud in the whole heavens, mutterings of thunder were heard, and the lightning was seen playing around the tree-tops with a pale and sickly glare. The young man, so intensely was his attention fixed upon the corpse at the foot of the tree, did not notice this phenomena; and he was at length horrified at beholding a ball of blue fire dart from the air, and glide into the ground immediately at the head of him whom he had named as his master. Then there was a loud explosion, and a glare of light so broad and strong that the watcher of the dead was obliged to veil his eyes with his hands, and he could scarcely tell for some moments whether he were deprived of his sight or not.
When he opened his eyes again, it was with a start of surprise, for, before him, with his arms folded on his breast, and regarding him with a calm and untroubled countenance, stood his master; while the moonlight streamed out upon the landscape, and as great a silence as when he lay in death upon the ground reigned around.
“Oh, signor,” he at length stammered, in broken tones—“my vigil has been one of the most terrible——”
“Silence, Spalatro,” said the resuscitated one, in a deep and hollow voice—“silence. Not a word, now or henceforth, must pass your lips respecting what you have seen to night. Breathe but a syllable of what I am to a human being, and naught on earth shall hide you from my vengeance.”
Spalatro bowed before his master in obedience, while his frame gave a shudder of horror, as he regarded the deathly appearance that still lingered in the signor’s features.
“Spalatro,” resumed the signor, after a slight pause, “you have rendered me great and faithful service, and your reward has been proportionate; but there is yet another service which I would seek at your hands. The Lady Oriana, for the possession of whom the Signor Fracati and I have fought, and for whose sake I received the wound which deprived me for a time of life, is at Florence, and at present ignorant of the mishap that befell me. The Signor Fracati and yourself are the only persons who are aware of it. He will carry to Florence the news of my death; and, on my re-appearance before the Lady Oriana, what tale can I invent to satisfy her? No, no—he must not reach Florence—he must never look upon the Lady Oriana again. You, Spalatro, wear a poniard, you have a powerful hand—and you know well where to strike. Rid me of this hated rival, and wealth shall be yours.”
Spalatro stood rooted to the spot while the signor spoke, and an expression of mingled horror and disgust crossed his countenance as the latter proceeded. When the signor had concluded, he stepped a pace or two back, and in a tone full of indignation, said,—
“Signor Waldeberg, I am no assassin; my poniard is yet guiltless of shedding human blood. I saw you receive what was thought to be a mortal wound in honourable combat with the Signor Fracati, and in these arms I beheld you sink in death. You had extorted from me a promise that after a certain lapse of time I would convey your body to this vast solitude, and lay it where the moonbeams should fall upon it; for that then life should once more revisit you. All this I have done, and faithfully; I feared to fail in my promise, for I knew the penalty you would pay if you failed to fulfil the conditions of your compact. But, signor, I am now no longer bound to you; you have commenced a fresh existence, which you would baptise with blood; you have passed the portals of death, and I will no longer serve you. I will seek another service and another master, who will require less at my hands, though his pay may be lighter. Farewell, signor, and better thoughts to you.
Spalatro turned upon his heel as he spoke, and with a hasty wave of his hand was leaving the spot, when the signor drew a pistol from a belt that was fastened round his waist, and, exclaiming, “He knows too much respecting me to be suffered to live,” fired it full at the head of the young man. The latter uttered a yell of agony which echoed loudly amid the awful silence, and fell lifeless on the earth. When the smoke from the pistol had cleared away, that lonely spot was deserted save by the body of Spalatro, whose blood, streaming upon the ground, reflected the moonbeams with a dull red glare.
When the morning sun broke over the mountain tops, its rays fell upon the form of the still insensible Spalatro. It was but seldom that any footsteps, save those of the wolf or the goat, left their impress on those rocks, and it was almost a miracle that the body of the unfortunate man was not left a prey to the former.
About an hour after daybreak, the bells of a string of mules were heard in the distance, accompanied by the cheerful song of the muleteer. A short time sufficed to bring the cavalcade to the spot, where lay the body of Spalatro, and the muleteer, with a cry of alarm, brought his train to a stop. Finding that life still remained, the humane mountaineer raised him from the ground, placed him across one of the mules, and then hastened forward to the next inn, which, however, was at some miles distance.
On arriving there, he found that the only apartment was occupied by a signor and his daughter, who, however, when the condition of the wounded man was made known to them, instantly relinquished it to him, and, after seeing his wounds looked to, ascertained that no mortal result was to be feared, and giving orders that he should want for no attention that money could procure, they pursued their journey.
It was many weeks before Spalatro recovered, and when he did regain his strength, he learned, with a feeling of deep gratitude, that the lady who had been so instrumental in his recovery was no other than the Signora Oriana. In an instant a vow was upon his lips that he would save her from the power of the fearful monster, whose only mission now on earth, seemed but to destroy the most beautiful of nature’s creation. With this purpose fixed in his mind, he one morning bid adieu to the residents of the little inn, and set off on his self-imposed errand.
Some days after the scene we have described as occurring on that lonely mountain pass, a report reached Florence, where the Signora Oriana was then staying with her father, that the Signor Fracati had met his death at the hands of a bravo, and that his body had been discovered stabbed in innumerable places. The grief of Oriana was intense, for she held the signor in great estimation, and she would have had but little hesitation in bestowing upon him her hand, if her father’s consent could but have been gained to the union. Signor Vivaldi, however, had been captivated by the great wealth, personal appearance, and captivating manners of the Signor Waldeberg, and he had fixed his mind upon him becoming the husband of his daughter.
Weeks passed away, and the memory of the murdered Fracati was gradually fading from the mind of Oriana. The respectful yet warm attentions of Waldeberg won upon a young and innocent heart that had always felt a slight esteem for him, and as she knew that her father’s happiness in a great measure depended upon her consent to the union, it was at length given with a freedom that brought joy to the old man’s heart.
It was arranged that the ceremony should take place at a chateau belonging to Waldeberg, in the neighbourhood of Lucca, whither it was resolved at once to proceed; and for this purpose Signor Vivaldi and his daughter, accompanied by Waldeberg, left Florence for that city.
As they were passing through the gates, a monk, with his cowl drawing carefully over his face, stepped hastily up to the carriage window, and, thrusting a letter into the hands of Oriana, as hastily disappeared.
With some surprise, she opened it and read it, and then a paleness overspread her countenance, and she sank back in her seat almost insensible. Her father snatched the paper from her trembling hand, and hastily glancing over its contents, with a look of anger, handed it to the Signor Waldeberg.
“See, signor, what some meddling fool, envious of your happiness, has done to alarm my daughter’s fears. Does he deem us so grossly superstitious as to believe in such children’s tales?”
The signor took the paper, which he found to run thus:—
“+Signora+,—A grateful heart warns you. Wed not the murderer of Fracati—wed not him who, once returned from death to life, seeks but your hand to provide a victim for the purpose of prolonging a hateful existence. If you despise this warning, at any rate, postpone the ceremony but for seven days from hence, and then his power of injuring you will have departed from him.”
“Do you know the writer, signor?” asked Vivaldi.
“It is evidently the handwriting of a servant of mine, whom I dismissed for insolence some few weeks since,” returned Waldeberg, a shade of vexation evidently passing across his brow; “and he now takes this means of endeavouring to obtain his revenge. But I will take means of having him punished.”
They now endeavoured to soothe the agitation of Oriana, but the incident seemed to have taken a firm hold upon her imagination, and, in spite of all their efforts, she found it impossible to shake off the effect it had upon her.
The chateau, the place of their destination, was at length reached; preparations were instantly commenced for the celebration of the marriage, which was to take place, by the Signor Waldeberg’s express desire, on the sixth day from that on which they had left Florence. As the day drew near, the spirits of Oriana grew gradually depressed, and a slight feeling of dread seemed to steal over her, whenever she found herself in the presence of her lover. Her father questioned her as to its cause, and then she confessed that the mysterious warning she had received preyed deeply on her mind. It might be a superstitious weakness, but she could not repress it; and she requested her father, however reluctant he might be, to consent to put it off for at least another day.
The entreaties of his daughter, though he laughed at her fears, prevailed upon the old man, and he gave his consent to her request; but when he mentioned the alteration in the time to Waldeberg, the countenance of the latter underwent a complete change to the hue of death. No prayer, however, could prevail upon the old man to recall his consent to his daughter’s wish, and the signor departed evidently in a state of the greatest despair.
That night the Signora Oriana was missing from her chamber, and though the strictest search was made for her, not the least trace of her presence could be found. The grief of the father and the lover knew no bounds, and there seemed to be no hope of consolation for them.
It is the night of the sixth day—that day against which Oriana had been so mysteriously warned. In a large vault, far beneath the chateau, and lighted by innumerable torches, that threw a red and smoky glare around, stood the beautiful Oriana and the Signor Waldeberg. The former was pale as marble, and an expression of the most intense despair was upon her countenance.
The signor, resolved that she should become his wife before the expiration of the six days, had torn her from her chamber, and immured her in that fearful place, with the hope of forcing her to become his bride; but Oriana revolted at such usage, and feeling more convinced than ever that the warning she had received had its foundation in truth, had resisted alike his persuasions and his threats.
The hour of midnight was fast approaching, and before an altar that stood at one end of the vault, was an old and venerable priest, with an open book in his hand. Waldeberg drew Oriana towards him, and forced her to kneel at the foot of the altar. She entreated—she supplicated—she appealed to the priest; his only answer was a solemn shake of the head, and then he proceeded to read the marriage ceremony. Waldeberg took her hand—but she suddenly flung it from her, and uttered the most piercing screams that echoed fearfully amidst those cavernous places. Still the priest read on, and despite her emotion and her agony of terror, Waldeberg regarded her with a cold and determined gaze.
“Faster! faster!” he muttered to the priest, “or all will be lost!” and he glanced anxiously around the vault.
At the moment, striking fearfully on the silence, came the sound of the turret clock telling the hour of midnight. On the first stroke, the most fearful sounds the human ear ever listened to filled the place—strange indefinite shadows flitted around, filling the air with a rushing sound, as if of mighty wings—the altar changed to a heap of human bones—the priest to a ghastly skeleton. Then came darkness, terrible and distinct; and Oriana swooned upon the damp floor.
When she recovered, she found the day had broken, and the sunlight was streaming upon her face; while her father and the young man whom she had seen wounded at the inn on the mountains were stooping over her in alarm.
The inhabitants of the chateau had been alarmed in the dead of the night by a terrific storm, which had thrown into ruins a part of the castle, and a vast chasm had been made in the foundations, disclosing the vaults, the existence of which had been until then unknown.
Beneath the rich vestments of Waldeberg, and lying in a heap on the ground, were the remains of a human skeleton—all that was now left of the guilty being who had thus paid the penalty for failing in complying with the conditions of the fearful compact into which he had entered with the unholy powers of darkness.
It was many months before the mind of Oriana recovered its strength, and when it did, she entered a convent of Ursuline nuns, and endeavoured to forget, in the consolations of religion, the fearful trial she had undergone.
Twissel laid down the book which he had been reading, and fell into a strange kind of musing, in which the vampyre, Waldeberg, and the East India colonel were strangely mixed up together. From this reverie he was awakened by a rap at the street-door, and then, in a few minutes afterwards, Mrs. Meredith entered the room, exclaiming,—
“Well, Mr. Twissel, you always come in luck’s way.”
“Indeed!” said Mr. Twissel, involuntarily thinking of what he had that morning undergone, as well as what he went through a day or two before; and, for the life of him, he saw not what might be called luck, unless it was that species known as ill-luck.
“Yes, Mr. Twissel, you are; you’ve just come in time to hear the news.”
“What news, ma’am—what news? If you’ll be pleased to enlighten me upon that subject, I shall be better able to understand what you allude to.”
“Why, you see, the colonel has been so pressing, that my daughter has been induced to name the day. Yes, Mr. Twissel, she has named the day—not a distant day either. He begged and entreated you don’t know how hard, which, at least, shows how much he meant it.”
“Well, truly, it is news, Mrs. Meredith,” said the attorney; “but, at the same time, it is what I expected, though not just at this juncture. The fact is, there is but little can be said against Colonel Deverill; but, at the same time, there will be but little said for him. I am by no means sure that there will be any property found. If he were a man of money, he would not hesitate to lay his circumstances open.”
“He is too proud a man for that.”
“Well, it may be all very well to attribute it to that cause. However that may be, there can be no doubt you have a right to do as you please, and I bow to your decision; but, still, I do so, having expressed my opinion to the contrary, being very suspicious of him. But, as I said before, you are entitled to do what you please in the affair; I have no right to do more.”
“My daughter and I have been considering the matter over and over again, and we have come to the conclusion that it should take place, and she has consented that it should take place in about ten days’ time, when we shall expect to have your company, Mr. Twissel.”
“I am obliged to you, and assure you my opinions upon this matter are not at all personal. I will meet the colonel, and I will be present with you all on that happy occasion with much pleasure; and I hope it will be a fortunate and happy marriage.”
“I hope so, too,” said Mrs. Meredith; “and I have every reason to believe so.”
“That is good,” said the attorney.
“And now, Mr. Twissel,” said Mrs. Meredith, “what did you do this morning at the South Sea House? I could not send to you so early as I could have wished, as I did not know he was going till the coach was ordered, and he went away almost immediately. I then sent Mary to you; I don’t know at what time she came to you, but at all events she was not back here until late.”
“She must have got to my place in good time, if she only started after the colonel had left this house,” said the attorney.
“I am very glad of that, at all events; but what success did you have?”
“Success, indeed,” said Mr. Twissel, with a shrug of mortification. “I have only succeeded in getting myself into a very serious difficulty, and the colonel has eluded me again. I can’t understand it all. I don’t know what to think; but I am sure of this, that I have been in a series of disasters ever since I undertook to follow him about, and I have discovered nothing concerning him.”
“What has happened to you to-day, then?” inquired Mrs. Meredith.
“Oh! as for that, what seems to be but natural in itself; and, therefore, it may be said not to be connected with him; indeed, though that were really the case, yet there is so much concurrent action, I cannot divest myself of the idea that it is a fatal affair, as far as regards looking after him.”
“Then don’t do so any more, Mr. Twissel.”
“I’ll never give in,” said Twissel.
“Well, but what need you trouble yourself more about the affair? I assure you we’re all well satisfied that Colonel Deverill is Colonel Deverill, and that he has property; that being the case, I am sure you have nothing to trouble yourself about, or to blame yourself for.”
“I am conscious of that,” said the attorney, rubbing his knee. “I have done all I can; and I have given my advice—I hope I have done my part.”
“Yes, you have,” said Mrs. Meredith. “I am quite satisfied; but what has happened to you?”
“I will tell you, my dear madam—I will tell you. I have been assaulted, knocked about, robbed, and my faculties all confused, and no use to me. I have lost my handkerchief, watch, and purse; and I have had my trowsers ripped open; and I can’t tell what besides. I am safe, however.”
“Well, that is right, at all events; but it is most annoying to me that you should be subject to those terrible accidents. I can’t understand the meaning of it.”
“I can’t,” said the attorney.
“But why should you, more than any one else, be subject to these misfortunes? I can’t understand it at all, Mr. Twissel. Perhaps you do something or other unusual on such occasions, which had been the cause of such terrible trouble.”
“Not that I am aware of,” said Twissel; “but the fact is, I don’t know of anything peculiar in my appearance or behaviour, that should cause this disaster. But I am sure of this, that there is nothing more singular about me, than what there usually is; and why it should only attract notice on these occasions and no other, I cannot tell.”
“Nor I. Well, I suppose it must have been there was some other circumstance, independent alike of him and you, that has caused this disagreeable affair.”
“Perhaps there might be.”
“Well, now, Mr. Twissel, there’s another affair I wish to speak to you about; or, rather, it’s a thing my daughter Margaret should speak to your daughter Elizabeth and Miss Martha about. You see, as they are not very often together, I thought it right to speak to you first.”
“Yes, ma’am—go on, pray.”
“Well, my Margaret is to be married in a few days, Now, we don’t want relatives at all; and I was advising her to beg your permission to have the two young ladies whom I have named, as bridesmaids, and who will be of essential service to my daughter.”
“I have no doubt but they will feel very much gratified with the proposal; and one could not have been better devised than this one to please them.”
“Then, will you invite them to come here, and spend the evening with Margaret and yourself, Mr. Twissel, the first evening you find leisure and inclination?”
“Well, I have destroyed to-day, so far as a business day, by drinking brandy-and-water early, and I may as well finish it in an agreeable manner.”
“That is very good; we shall expect you to tea this evening.”
“You may,” said Mr. Twissel; “if you are not otherwise engaged. I may as well do all that is necessary, so as to have as little to do, by-and-bye, as possible. Has the colonel come home?”
“No, not yet; I did not expect him to come home so soon as this, but he will be back in a very short time, now, I dare say.”
“Then I will bid you good bye, for it will be unnecessary to meet him in this plight; indeed, he might think I paid him no respect to do so; and besides it will be better, altogether, that he should not see me so soon, lest he should have caught sight of me in the city; which, indeed, I think wholly impossible, for I only had a distant glimpse of him.”
“Then, good bye, sir; I shall see you and the young ladies.”
“Both—my daughter, and her young friend, Martha.”
Mr. Twissel arose, and left the house to return to his own house, and get his daughter prepared for the visit, and her friend also, while Mrs. Meredith and her daughter, Margaret, consulted together, as to what would be the best method of doing honour to the occasion of the forthcoming marriage.
“You see, my dear,” said Mrs. Meredith, “we cannot very well invite our own friends, because they are such a greedy, rapacious set; they would sooner spoil a good chance for us than let us have it unmolested; they are by far too greedy—no, no, they must not come—they will think themselves injured if they cannot share the harvest.”
“And all will be lost.”
“To be sure; and, moreover, we could not shake them off when we wanted, and which we must do very soon, for the colonel will never abide them.”
“No, ma’ I think not, indeed—they are decidedly low people, who are genteel only of a Sunday; it will never do to have such people about us.”
“Oh, dear, no.”
“Here is the colonel come back; see if that girl has got the water hot, he will like his tea early; I am quite sure she hasn’t got it ready—what a provoking girl that is, to be sure. She does nothing all day; I must get rid of her.”
“Yes; but she is very ugly.”
“That is one great recommendation in her favour,” said Mrs. Meredith; “one very great recommendation; it ensures domestic peace, to say the least of it, and there’s not so many followers usually. Now, however, we must do the best until we have more; but here he is.”
At that moment the colonel entered the house, and proceeded at once to the drawing-room, having first divested himself of his hat and cloak in the passage. Up stairs was a good fire and an easy chair, with ottomans for his feet, and a comfortable well furnished apartment it was.
Mrs. Meredith followed him up and entered the room after him, to inquire what he would like done next; and with her assistance, he took his boots off and put on a pair of splendid slippers, and reposed with a groan of satisfaction on the chair.
“I think, Mrs. Meredith,” he said, “that the best thing I can have will be some tea. Where is Margaret? when she is at liberty, I wish to see and speak to her.”
“She will be here in a few moments, colonel,” said Mrs. Meredith; “I will send her to you.”
“No hurry for a few moments,” said the colonel.
“Something about the jewels, I’ll be sworn,” said Mrs. Meredith, to herself; “I wonder what he has in that parcel; a present, I dare say.”
Mrs. Meredith sought Margaret, and related what the colonel said, with his desire to see her, and that young lady at once proceeded to the drawing-room.
“Oh, my dear Margaret,” said Colonel Deverill, “I see you are pleased to see I have returned; your very eyes tell me so. Come here to me, dearest.”
“Ah, my looks, I am afraid, say too much.”
“Not at all—not at all,” said the colonel; “I love to see them, especially when I know they are sincere, when they come from the heart, you know; I love to see innocent and heartfelt satisfaction beaming from such a face as yours.”
“Oh, colonel, you are really too complimentary; not that I think you don’t mean what you say, but your partiality is too great to allow you to judge as a stranger would.”
“I do not desire to judge as a stranger would; it does not give me any satisfaction. To look upon you with the eyes of a lover, is a privilege I most desire, and very soon with those of a husband; then my happiness will be complete. How I long for the days and the hours to fly by—they cannot go too fast now; by and bye they may pass as slowly as you please—that done, then I am quite content, because I shall pass them happily, rapturously.”
“Ah, you are so kind-hearted, so good, that I can never repay you.”
“Do not seek to do so, you will only make me the heavier in debt; but come, there is a small parcel, with a few trinkets I have purchased; the jewels I spoke of are in hand, and they will be ready in time for our marriage.”
“Nay, do not think about them—not to disturb yourself, colonel; I am quite content if I am dressed as befits the occasion; but I am really obliged to you for your present, whatever it may be; and I may as well tell you I have thought—indeed, I have said as much—I should like to have a couple of female friends to visit me on that occasion.”
“Yes, my dear, you may depend upon it. I shall be the more happy when I know you are so too; but no matter, ask whom you please; as far as I am able, I will make them welcome and happy. I suppose, however, you are alluding to your bridesmaids.”
“I am,” said Margaret.
“I shall be most happy to see them, or any friend you may desire,” added the colonel.
“And will you have no one on the occasion?” inquired Margaret; “won’t you have somebody to keep you in countenance upon the occasion?”
“No,” said the colonel, “I shall not; I have no friends with whom I am intimate enough, that I know of, at this present moment; there may be people in London, with whom I have been, in India, intimate with, but I do not know for certain; but time and accident will turn up old friends, and I have not the desire to seek for them; but if we must have some one, I do not know whether Mr. Twissel would not do quite as well, if he would come, and your mother had no objection.”
“I am sure she would not. Mr. Twissel was an old friend of my father’s, and, consequently, he would be no stranger at all to the family; besides, it is his daughter, and her friend, Martha, that I have invited upon this occasion; have I done wrong?”
“Not at all, it could not have happened better; I am sure they must be very worthy people, and any one whom you please, or they know, that you feel disposed to invite, do so, with the confidence that whatever pleases you on the occasion, will please me.”
At that moment there was an alarming rapping at the door, which caused them to pause a few moments; then they continued their conversation until the servant announced to Miss Meredith, that Miss Twissel, her papa, and her friend, Martha, were come.
