“Does he suspect aught?”
“No. Oh, dear no!”
While this love-making had been going on there was one in the house who had her own private reasons for suspecting something was amiss—this was the housekeeper in the establishment.
She was under the impression that a little harmless flirtation was taking place, but she had no idea of its nature or extent. Had she been aware of this, in all likelihood she would have mentioned the subject to her young mistress or his lordship.
She, however, deemed it expedient, for divers reasons, to remain silent.
The very last person in the whole establishment to suspect the state of affairs was the master of Broxbridge.
He had unlimited faith in the integrity of his daughter, and, indeed, to say the truth, there was not much excuse to be made for her, save that she was charmed with her lover’s handsome person, his musical voice, his fascinating and engaging manners. She was infatuated—so much so, indeed, as to be heedless of the great wrong she was doing, but she had now gone too far to retract.
She consented to elope with her music-master, who had repeatedly suggested a clandestine marriage.
She persuaded herself that he was a gentleman, although a poor one. He was an artist, a man of polished manners, and equal in many ways to her father’s friends and companions—in some respects he was their superior.
Poor, giddy, thoughtless girl, she knew but little of the world. Had she mixed more in society she would have hesitated before she took the first false step which led to untold misery both to her and hers.