Are you going, sir?"
"I must go," replied Arthur, taking one of the thin hands. "I will
bring Charley in to-morrow."
Jenkins pressed Arthur's hand between his. "God bless you, Mr. Arthur,"
he fervently said. "May He be your friend for ever! May He render your
dying bed happy, as He has rendered mine!" And Arthur turned
away--never again to see Jenkins in life.
"Blessed are those servants, whom the Lord when He cometh shall find
watching."
As Jenkins was, that night, when the message came for him.
CHAPTER LX.
IN WHAT DOES IT LIE?
Had the clerk of the weather been favoured with an express letter
containing a heavy bribe, a more lovely day could not have been secured
than that one in January which witnessed the marriage of Constance
Channing to the Rev. William Yorke.
The ceremony was over, and they were home again; seated at breakfast
with their guests. But only a few guests were present, and they for the
most part close friends: the Huntleys; Lady Augusta Yorke, and Gerald;
Mr. Galloway; and the Rev. Mr. Pye, who married them. It has since
become the fashion to have a superfluity of bridesmaids: I am not sure
that a young lady would consider herself legally married unless she
enjoyed the privilege. Constance, though not altogether a slave to
fashion, followed it, not in a very extensive degree. Annabel Channing,
Ellen Huntley, and Caroline and Fanny Yorke, had been the _demoiselles
d'honneur_.
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