Chapter II

WE lost our kind uncle six months after Norman came of age. He had come to stay with us suddenly one day, and had been delighted by the manner in which my brother realized the responsibilities of his position, and predicted a bright future for us both.

"You will not disgrace the old name, my boy," he said, "and I trust you will soon bring a fair young wife to occupy your mother's chair. I picture you both—Berty and you, I mean—fittingly mated, and the sooner my dream becomes a reality the better."

Afterwards, he whispered something about Stephen Hastings, and said, "Even if he should take my pet without a penny, he would never regret it."

"He has not asked for me yet, Uncle Bernard," I replied.

"But I can see as far into the future without spectacles as my neighbours can, and I have bought you a wedding present on the strength of my prophetic vision. I mean to give it you now, but you must not wear it till your wedding-day."

"I believe you rack your brains for excuses to buy me things; but you must keep back your wedding gift till the proper time comes, Uncle Bernard," I replied.

"No, dear. You must indulge me by taking it from my own hand. If I should live to give you away to—spare your blushes, Berty, I will mention no name—a husband, well. If not, you will remember that I actually gave you these little souvenirs. Come with me."

Uncle Bernard led us to a quaint-looking piece of furniture, ornamental outside, but really a strong iron safe, and took from it a case containing a beautiful suite of diamonds, then some other jewels, and a purse with gold and notes. Besides these, he showed us a sealed packet, addressed, as I thought, to myself.

"Now, Berty, you see these ornaments; put them on that I may know how you will look on your bridal morning. Why, child, you seem quite awe-stricken. I thought you had experienced your old uncle's whims long enough to be able to laugh when he breaks out in a new direction."

Somehow, I could not laugh, and my eyes filled with tears as my uncle persisted in hanging the shining necklace round my neck, and clasped the bracelets round my arms.

"Put on the rest yourself, dear. I am a clumsy substitute for a tire-maiden," he added.

I obeyed, and Uncle Bernard looked admiringly as he said, "My darling is like a little queen, and now she must give me a kiss in payment."

I clasped my arms round his neck, and kissed the kind face of my more than father again and again; then whispered, "I wish I could tell you how much I value your love and tenderness, which are better than all the jewels in the world."

He passed his hand caressingly down my hair, as he said that Norman and I had been son and daughter to him, and filled a void in a solitary life.

"Uncle Bernard," said I, "you were never meant for a bachelor."

"I had other dreams once, darling, but the bright visions faded without becoming realities. It was, however, neither cruel parents nor faithlessness that came between me and marriage. Death parted my love from me, and soon he will cancel his work by reuniting us."

Then, quickly changing his tone, Uncle Bernard said, "We will lock up these pretty things with the purse. It contains some pocket-money for you to start housekeeping with; but so long as you are Bertha Savell you must not have a single gold piece out of it."

"But what other mystery is hidden in that sealed packet, uncle?" I asked, affecting great curiosity.

"That, my dear, contains certain instructions for the benefit of your future husband, whoever he may be. I have had some experience in managing you, and I wish him to profit by it. The packet, observe, is addressed to 'Bertha's husband,' and is to be opened only when some one has a right to the title. Were he to learn what sort of a person you are beforehand, he might decline to accompany you to church."

We all laughed at this speech; and then the articles were replaced in the safe, and we returned to talk together round the fire till bedtime.

Then Uncle Bernard was ill for some time, and kept his room; and it used to be my pleasure to go and chat with him as he sat in his invalid chair. But one morning the poor darling was found dead.

We knew afterwards that he had long expected such an end, for he suffered from an ailment against which medical skill could avail nothing. Tender in everything, he concealed the worst from our knowledge, only hinting at the possibility of an early call from our midst, in order to make it seem less sudden when it should come.